


praised the morning; gloried in the sea

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Austen Tropes Galore, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, Humour, M/M, Matchmaking, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: In this sleepy corner of the county, where the hay harvest is the event of the year and London society is but a faint murmur, brought in on the winds, the advent of not one but two Naval men is practicallyexciting.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 63
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

Autumn’s chill has finally reached Hertfordshire, much to the relief of the general population, after an interminably long, hot summer. September had brought rain, rejuvenating the parched fields and turning Rose Hill’s dry, yellowed lawns back to their usual verdant hue, her flowerbeds ablaze with colour, her walled kitchen garden a symphony of greenery; fit to bursting with cabbage and onion, runner beans, carrots and beetroot, and orange nasturtiums rocketing up between them all. Now, as October dawns, the trees are noticeably barer, leaves in hues of gold and brown littering the ground, making the flagstones of the courtyard and the garden path devilishly slippy. A cold wind blows, heralding the approaching winter; sure but steady in its progress. Frost is not an uncommon sight on the lawn now, the grass bejewelled with it until mid morning, when the sun rises from behind the trees and melts it away again.

The world seems quieter now, after the frenzied activity of summer: Rose Hill abuzz with visitors, parties in the garden, trips to London for the theatre, trips to the coast for sea bathing and ice cream. With autumn begins a period of settling down, of bedding in, of reacquainting oneself with the comforts of home. For William Coningham, who finds comfort and protection in the idea that his weak constitution has best suited him for a life indoors, this is perfectly agreeable. What better way to spend a day than cocooned in Rose Hill’s expansive library, reading about the art of the ancient world and, better yet, of the Renaissance, of Titian and Raphael?

For James Fitzjames, William’s adoptive brother and his senior by two years, autumn heralds a great boredom. For James, the past few months of summer have been a reverie of long walks, explorations of every hidden, green corner of Hertfordshire, of horse rides, of sketching the sweeping vistas of the countryside in charcoal and pencil, of lying in the shade of the orchard with a book propped open on his chest, reading of faraway lands, faraway exploits. He has scarcely been inside at all, only returning to the house for sustenance and rest, and the sun has bronzed his skin, bringing out the green in his eyes.

It has been a solitary summer, because Will is much more a lover of the indoors than James, and because the long, rambling letters he both sent to and received from his school friends – Dundy, Charlewood, and the rest – could never be as diverting as their actual company. Still, James has been far from lonely. He has his imagination to entertain him, and good honest exercise, and as long as the sun shone hot and bright in the sky, and he can roam beneath it as he wished, he has had few complaints.

Now, as the days are shortening and the wind blows cold from the north, James knows those carefree summer days are behind him. He is used to this boredom by now; his family are creatures of habit, and he has spent these past five and twenty years with them. He loves them dearly, of course, as he loves this house and the life they have seen fit to provide him with, when it would have been so easy to cast him into the Foundling Hospital as an infant. Nonetheless, James is here at Rose Hill, this comfortable life is all he has ever known, and as the cold weather gets its claws into England once again, he is bored. 

Will Coningham finds him in the drawing room, one miserable afternoon after weak morning sunshine has given way to an interminable drizzling rain, idly flicking through a book of maps. Will, who has come directly from his father’s study, stands in the doorway with a hand on his hip and a knowing look on his face. “They’ve let Aston Abbots at last,” he announces, the way a royal courtier might announce the arrival of some great prince.

This does not stir James, however, and he does not glance up from the atlas. That old house over the hill has stood empty for years; someone was bound to come along and claim it eventually. He turns a page. “Anyone interesting?”

“Sir James Clark Ross,” Will says with a flourish, as if the man himself were about to walk through the door. “Of the Royal Navy.”

James finally lifts his eyes and watches Will drop down into the nearest armchair. “A retired Admiral, no doubt. How old is he, sixty?”

“Oh no,” Will says, shaking his head. “Father says he’s quite young. Recently married, and bringing his new wife out to the country. And some Navy friend too, apparently.”

James hums, considering this, his curiosity finally roused. In this sleepy corner of the county, where the hay harvest is the event of the year and London society is but a faint murmur, brought in on the winds, the advent of not one but  _ two _ Naval men is practically  _ exciting _ . 

(James has always been fascinated by sailors, not that he has ever met one, nor really seen the sea besides trips to Brighton and Margate, but novels and newspaper stories and gossip from London have painted a romantic picture; sailors facing daily peril, putting up with the greatest hardships, with fame and glory as their rewards, a nation thankful for their service. Oh, how he had dreamt of joining up in his youth, but his parents – his adoptive parents, of course – and especially his mother, were afraid of losing him to misfortune, to cannon fire, to the sea. 

He had protested at the time – he remembers the tantrums his twelve year old self had thrown – but he had eventually realised that he would much rather please his parents, because they were only his parents out of the kindness of their own hearts after all, and he had much to prove to them. Since then he has striven to be a worthy investment, and will do whatever his parents bid, and has put his dreams of the sea into one corner of his mind for safekeeping.)

Sir James Clark Ross must be handsome, he decides – some young lady married him after all, so he must not be so disagreeable. He must also be brave, or brilliant, or some other shining quality which earned him that knighthood. He must have years of exciting stories with which to regale his new neighbours. He must have seen things of which James can hardly conceive, been to places beyond James’ wildest imaginings. What a life lived, what wonders experienced, what glory. James envies him fiercely, as much as it is possible to envy someone you have not met, whose face you do not know, whose name is the only real piece of information you possess. 

He spends a few days letting his imagination run away from him, knowing full well that it is a dangerous game. He is setting himself up for disappointment, he knows, because people rarely live up to the gossip, people are rarely as interesting as what he can conjure up in his head. Still, what else has he to do? He dreams of the sea, of great ships, and of lands that he cannot name. 

A week passes, and Rose Hill finally receives an invitation to go over to Aston Abbots and meet its new tenants. In his excitement, James stresses over what to wear and how best to have his hair, and talks incessantly as their carriage trundles through the inky blue twilight to pull up in front of the grand house, golden light flooding from the windows. 

Much to his relief, James is not disappointed with Sir James Clark Ross.

Ross is handsome, tall and elegant, as comfortable in his new house as if he had lived there for years. He is witty and charming, and welcomes his neighbours with unfeigned and unforced enthusiasm. When James is introduced as a  _ Fitzjames _ as opposed to a  _ Coningham _ , there is not a hint of hesitation or confusion. It is accepted as if it is the most normal thing in the world, for which James feels a rush of gratefulness; there are some houses in Hertfordshire and its neighbouring counties in which he does not feel wholly welcome. 

Ross’ wife, Lady Ann, is equally lovely, equally charming; clearly a sharp mind and a keen wit, and James likes them both immensely. They are capable hosts indeed, laying out a dinner that is as delicious as Ross’ anecdotes from his time at sea. James hangs on every word, unabashedly rapt, leaning forwards in his chair that he might hear every minute detail. He is eminently pleased to realise that the Rosses are everything he hoped they would be. He is not often wrong, and he does not like to be so, and thus to be proved right is deeply satisfying. 

James cannot, however, ignore his disappointment with regards to Ross’ friend. Francis Crozier, he is told, had sailed with Ross on almost all of his expeditions. Ross’ intellectual and scientific equal, a man who has committed great feats of daring and bravery in the line of duty. It is an ambitious introduction, to be sure, but James feels it falls quite flat in the face of reality; Francis Crozier is dour and downcast and as taciturn as he can be, only talking when directly addressed, and terse and precise on those occasions.

Something clearly weighs on his mind, and it is obvious to James that he would rather be anywhere than in this dining room, in this grand house. He feels a sting of bitterness – what is wrong with this house? What is wrong with this town, this county? Why is it not good enough for Crozier, who hardly strikes an impressive image next to his handsome friend? James can hardly fathom how the two grew close in the first place, can hardly fathom how anyone could get to know this man, if this is the way he carries on.

After dinner, when they are all arranged in one of Aston Abbots’ grand drawing rooms, Crozier seems even more withdrawn, ever more uncomfortable. James, full of food and perhaps more wine than he should have had, feels he must try and engage Crozier in conversation, having always thought a man should be allowed at least two chances to make a first impression. He finds Crozier sitting by the fire, straight-backed like he supposes a Navy man ought to be, but with one hand curled into a fist on his knee and the other playing with a loose thread on his breeches.

James hovers for a few seconds, waiting to be noticed, and eventually gives up and clears his throat to make his presence known. “It has been uncommon hot this summer, sir, and I daresay even hotter down in London?”

Crozier looks up and blinks at him as if he has only just noticed he is not alone in the room. He is not unattractive; there is something pleasing in his neatly combed, fair hair, and the earnest gaze of his blue eyes, but the downward cant of his mouth and the defeated slump of his shoulders spoil the image somewhat. “Yes,” Crozier says, “It was very warm.” He drops his gaze to his hands, now clenched together in his lap, and then looks back into the fire, offering nothing more.

James sets his jaw, indignation rising up in him at such an ungracious display, but he has never been one to give up, and he tries again. “And your career in the Navy,” he begins, standing with a hand on his hip as if he knows anything about anything. He has always tried to project this impression, even if it is not strictly true. People will believe what they want to, and he can make them want it. “That must have been exciting.”

Again, Crozier lifts his head to look at him as if it is a chore, and he shrugs slightly. “Sometimes, yes. But the Navy can be just a lot of standing about, most days.”

Hardly the most inspiring of comments, hardly a stepping stone into a more involved conversation. Crozier does not seem to have noticed, and now seems to be admiring the pattern of the wallpaper. James clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place, and irritated at Crozier for bringing it out in him. Well, he has tried, no one could deny him that. He bows slightly, not that Crozier is looking, and leaves him to his brooding as he crosses the room to where Ross is telling his guests about the city of Hobart, and the adventures that are to be had there.

Ross alludes to his travails in Antarctica but makes it plain that this is a much longer story, perhaps one for another night, and besides, he needs Crozier’s help to tell it. James and Will both protest this loudly, both eager to hear it, but Ross demurs, and it is eventually decided that Will might play something charming on the pianoforte.

With everyone gathered around to listen, Crozier included, Will plays a lively gavotte – he is far more accomplished on the instrument than James will ever be, despite years of lessons and frustrated tutors – and James watches Crozier’s face; he watches the flat, detached expression. Crozier must surely be thinking of finer instruments, finer pianists, finer music, he must think himself too good for this primitive sort of country entertainment. James finds himself scowling at the man, but looks away hurriedly when Crozier meets his eye, and he does not look back again.

“An odd fellow, that Crozier,” James says once the evening is over and they are making their way back home, their carriage trundling slowly along dark country lanes, the repetitive rap of the horse’s hooves almost soothing in its steady rhythm.

“Oh no,” says Robert Coningham at once, looking at him over the top of his round spectacles. “I think he’s rather interesting. I spoke to him but briefly, and he had some very shrewd opinions.” James raises an eyebrow at him, to which Coningham says again, “An interesting chap. I may invite him round for tea, one day.”

“Oh, surely not!” James exclaims before he can stop himself, and he receives a stern look from both his parents. “He’s such a bore – he seemed pained to have to be in our presence at all.”

“Not everyone is as fond of a party as you, James,” his mother chides, and he scowls like a petulant teenager. “He cannot help it if he is shy.”

“ _ Will  _ is shy,” James says, gesturing at his brother who makes a small noise of protest at this characterisation, “but at least  _ he _ makes an effort.”

“Crozier was reserved,” his father pronounces with an air of authority, “but I thought he was perfectly amiable.”

“Well, I’m just surprised you got more than five words out of him,” says Will. “I was watching James’ valiant attempts at conversation.”

James elbows him in the ribs, but feels a rush of relief that Will is taking his side in this. Will is the reliable sort of brother. If there is a situation to be in, they are usually in it together, and James would like it to remain that way. After all, who else does he have?

“Maybe he just doesn’t like you,” Will says, elbowing him back.

James laughs, knowing this to be a joke, though he cannot ignore the feeling that his pride has been wounded tonight. He had been so excited to meet these new arrivals, and he had never considered the fact that one of them might not be excited to meet  _ him.  _

_ \--- _

“Well, old man,” Ross says once their guests have gone and the house is quiet, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “How was that?”

Francis stirs from his reveries, looking away from where he has been staring out of the window at the night sky, and the silhouettes of trees and hills. “We made it through in one piece. I suppose that’s all we can ask for.”

Ross laughs, watching through the open door as the servants extinguish the candles in the dining room. “The hero of the Antarctic laid low by one measly dinner.”

Francis gives him a look which clearly says that if either of them is the hero of the Antarctic, it is not himself, but he does not argue Ross’ point. He had tried to enjoy the evening, he really had, but Ross knows as well as anyone that Francis’ mood has been so low for days – weeks – plagued with thoughts of  _ her _ , the way she had not been able to look him in the eyes, the dismissive tone of her voice. The look on Sir John Franklin’s face haunts him too; the barely disguised pity, the contempt. The disgust at the idea of a middle born Irish nobody marrying into his family, sullying his niece’s good name and reputation. It is not even that she refused him, it is that she was forced to refuse him for a second time, because he had been so stupid and naive as to hope for a response different to her first  _ no.  _

Francis has felt, for a long time, miserable and humiliated, and quite content to wallow in it. He is not in the mood to meet new people. He misses drink desperately, all the time; it is a constant cloying itch, a weight around his shoulders that he cannot shrug off. He would let himself surrender to it completely without James and Ann at his side, both steadying presences to keep him on the straight and narrow.

He appreciates their help, and wants to do right by them, does not want them to regret opening their home to him. What a godsend it had been when James had first extended the invitation – _ come and stay with us, Frank, for as long as you want. It would make Ann and I as happy as anything –  _ what a strange feeling of freedom had settled upon Francis as their carriage had left London, rising up into the stretching, rolling expanses of the Hertfordshire countryside. Francis remembers meeting James’ gaze and the two of them grinning like schoolboys. There had been a period of happiness, for a while; the busy rushing around involved in moving into a new house, of acquainting oneself with new surroundings, but as Francis starts to feel settled, those old hurts, those old thoughts – thoughts of  _ her – _ have started to creep back to him, leaving him that sullen and downtrodden man he has always been, worth very little and of no use to anybody.

He does not think that the Coninghams are bad people; the old man and his wife are clearly cultured, intelligent, worldly, but there is an adolescent arrogance to their sons which Francis does not enjoy. Especially the eldest, who has a haughty air and a cold, assessing eye, as if he wishes to strip Francis down to his very essence and haul out all his secrets, and then to mock him mercilessly for them. He had clearly been disappointed in Francis when he tried to make conversation; Francis could hear it in his voice, he could see the scorn in his eyes. It had been a relief when Fitzjames had left him alone to hear one of Ross’ stories. 

No, he had not been in the mood for company, and while he cannot bring himself to feel sorry for that, he does feel sorry for any embarrassment it might have brought to the Rosses, who only deserve good things and happiness, now that they are finally married and starting their life together.

“It was a very fine dinner,” Francis concedes, and Ross smiles as if he had made the soupe  à la reine himself . If he had, Francis might tell him to use a little less salt next time. Still, Francis finds that the sight of his smile stirs him from his melancholy, if only slightly. He is happy to know that his dearest friend is happy, content to know that he has found a wife and a home and all the things that bring one joy. He gets to his feet and nudges Ross with his elbow, attempting a wry smile. “Now what on earth are you loitering around here for? Your lady wife is upstairs.”

Ross gives him a roguish grin, and disappears from the room as fast as is seemly.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Despite James’ own reservations about Francis Crozier (‘reservations’ here taken to mean that he thinks Crozier to be a boring and joyless old snob intent on making everyone as miserable as himself), his adoptive father is true to his word and is clearly intent on getting to know the man – a fellow Ulsterman – better, and before long the first invitation for tea goes out to Crozier and Ross.

James does not attend – indeed, he has not explicitly been invited – but he ambles through the knee high grass of that part of the garden where the wildflowers have been left to run riot, listening to the conversation taking place on the paved patio not ten yards away, separated by a waist-high hedge. Here and there he plucks flowers from the ground, thinking he might arrange them nicely in a vase as a surprise for his mother who has been taken ill and is abed, and he surreptitiously listens to talk of such lofty concepts as Admiralties and Greenwich Observatories, and sprawling docks at Portsmouth.

He tries not to act like he is eavesdropping, and hums some nameless tune so as to seem less conspicuous. Still, he catches Crozier’s gaze once while his father and Ross converse, and offers him a faintly sardonic smile, a raised eyebrow, a hand on his hip while he wipes the sweat from his brow with his other. Crozier meets all this with a half-hearted glower which makes James want to laugh. He returns to the house with a bunch of flowers cradled in his arms and a smile on his face, holding himself in the way that he does when he knows he is being watched.

Crozier and Ross leave, eventually, and that evening James’ father pronounces them to be very fine gentlemen, and he would be very happy to have them back again.

While this comes as a surprise to James at first, on the whole it has nothing to do with him, which is how he prefers it. He has better things to do, better things to think about. Why should it matter to him what company his father keeps – it does not matter at all. His father may spend time with anyone he chooses, even if the man is decidedly lacking in joy, what difference is it to James? In any case, he has lately acquired a new set of oil paints, and is quite determined that he should break them in; he plans to spend many hours hunched over his desk, pencil and paintbrush in hand. He has half a mind to paint something as a gift for his mother – perhaps a portrait of his brother, if Will can drag himself away from his books long enough to sit for it. 

It is while James is mulling this over, considering where might be best for Will to sit in James’ room – where might be the best place to catch the light – that he walks into the front hall to see Francis Crozier standing there, hat in hand, staring out of a window, waiting for James’ father. 

James, feeling rather gracious on this particular morning, bobs his head politely and says, “Good morning, Mister Crozier.”

Crozier stares at him with something akin to panic, which he manages to school into vague disinterest. “Good morning,” he eventually returns, and goes back to staring out of the window.

When it is clear that Crozier will make no further attempt at conversation, James clenches his jaw, overtaken by an inexplicable irritation. What is wrong with this man, that he finds no entertainment in James’ company? James, who has never lacked for friends, for charm and wit and appeal, who has felt the weight of interested eyes watching him from across ballrooms, who has been nothing but pleasant to this man since they were introduced – still Crozier seems disinclined to know him at all.

James hears footsteps on the staircase, and sniffs imperiously. “Here comes my father now. I wish you a good day, sir, I know it must have been difficult to come down here from Aston Abbots.”

Crozier looks at him sharply over his shoulder, but has no time to say anything before Robert Coningham is with them, and Crozier’s stern glare turns into a polite smile.

James makes his excuses and leaves them, not giving Crozier a second glance. He abandons his plans of painting, passes the next hour or so in a foul mood and then walks into town, where he entertains the idea of spending too much money on a new waistcoat. He is distracted from this, however, when he encounters Miss Elizabeth Meyrick, a childhood friend of both himself and Will, walking arm in arm with her mother, their heads bowed together as they talk.

He greets them brightly, having always found that a pretty face and a pleasant conversation can shake him from any mood in which he might find himself. There are the usual formalities – she enquires after his parents, and is pleased to hear they are well – he enquires after her brother, who is away with the army, and hears of her father suffering with a slight cold, and of a sister lately married. James has always thought Elizabeth to be a pleasant sort of girl, with her lively blue eyes and her dark curls bouncing as she talks, the intelligent quirk of her mouth. Yes, they had once been close as children, though James remembers she always got on better with his brother. He remembers how frightfully jealous he had been – of both of them – to not be the centre of attention, even though he was the loudest and the most boisterous.

As if reading his mind, she adjusts her bonnet slightly as she enquires, “I do hope your brother William is in good health, sir.”

James smiles graciously, and pretends he does not see the keen interest in her eyes. “He is very well, I thank you. I will pass your kind wishes on to him, and I am sure he would want me to give you his own, as well.”

Elizabeth flushes and looks down at her feet, but a smile has spread onto her face, and James imagines it is the sort of smile one has when thinking about a loved one.

“You must come and see us at Rose Hill,” he says, trying to suppress a grin. “It’s been so long since we had the pleasure of your company. Your good parents too, of course,” he adds, glancing at the stern visage of Elizabeth’s mother, who has perhaps not forgiven James’ childhood boisterousness – at least one broken vase springs to mind.

Elizabeth beams, a most gratifying sight. “We would be delighted.”

They say their goodbyes and James takes his leave, all thoughts of a new waistcoat forgotten. A plan is formulating in his mind, his thoughts whirling so fast he can hardly keep up with them. Oh, how close Will and Elizabeth had been as children! James is amazed that he had not noticed the truth of it before. He would often see them in the library, heads bowed together as they pored over an illustration in some dusty tome, her dark ringlets brushing against his temple as they whispered excitedly. He had thought little of it, however, except how dull they both were to prefer the library to the glories of the outdoors, though now he understands it for what it was.

It is clear to him now, after today’s encounter, that Elizabeth’s affection for Will still endures, and he has heard Will innocuously bringing Elizabeth up enough times to be sure of his affection as well. It would be no work at all to bring this all to the fore, to push them towards each other, to bring forth confessions of tenderness and love – and a wedding at the end of it all. How happy they would be together, how happy _James_ would be, as the architect of that happiness.

He is keen to get to work immediately and his mind races, trips over itself in a muddle of ideas. His plan, as yet vague and unformed, will not fail. How can it? They are clearly halfway in love already and have thus done all the hard work. It is simply a matter of showing each of them the path towards the other, and perhaps giving them a gentle shove along it. Had they been sworn enemies, James would have a much tougher job.

(That James himself has never been in love seems of little consequence. Why should it be, when he has read endless novels and stories singing love’s praises? When he has read as many poems and heard as many songs as could fill a ballroom? He has thought of love and dreamt of love all his life. He knows he is unlikely to get it, being who he is. But isn’t it marvellous, such a wonderful thing to dream of; when he closes his eyes to sleep and lets his imagination unspool and run rampant, it is such a comfort to dream of having someone of his own, a warmth and a softness, tender words and tender kisses, a sympathetic soul to know him and still want him.

James dreams of many things, and above all he dreams of love. He feels he knows it well enough, even if he does not know it firsthand. He would never let anything so trivial put a halt to his plans.)

James and Will had thought about attending the next dance in town, and now he sees that it is imperative that they go, and hopes – prays – that Elizabeth is there too, that he might get the whole process going as soon as possible. He will insist they dance together, insist that Will comments on how fine her dress is, how prettily her hair is arranged, he will insist that they sit together and talk and laugh and forget that there is anyone else in the room with them. James is so deep in thought that he is nearly run over by a horse and cart, but not even the angry shouting of the driver can jolt him from his good mood as he walks through the outskirts of town, and turns down the road for home.

  
  


\---

It is with slight bemusement that Francis receives an invitation for breakfast with Robert Coningham not a week after he had gone over to Rose Hill for tea. It had gone well, by all accounts; he does not think he said anything especially stupid, and he asked some appropriate questions which Coningham seemed happy to answer.

He is mildly surprised that the old man has taken an interest in him; between himself and Ross, he has never been the more attractive candidate for friendship, but he can’t deny that he enjoys the attention, the conversation. It is a distraction, at least, from the dark clouds in his mind and the heavy weight of his heart. What’s more, it is a pleasant walk over the hill and through the woods to Coningham’s house, which is very attractive in and of itself, and as long as Coningham’s sons – Fitzjames in particular – are not about, Francis reasons that there is very little about which he can complain.

Thus, Francis arrives at Rose Hill early one morning, and as he makes his way down the path towards the house – walking briskly, for the morning is cold and his shortcut across the lawn has left his feet drenched with dew – he sees two figures on a bench set just a short distance away from the path to his right. As he draws closer he sees it to be Coningham’s sons; or Coningham’s son and his ward; or however Coningham sees fit to call them. They are slumped on the bench, leaning against each other, both in various states of disarray. As Francis draws closer they notice him and try to organise themselves in alarm.

“Mister Coningham,” he says in greeting, “Mister Fitzjames.”

Coningham jumps to his feet but seems to regret it, as he staggers backwards and sits down heavily on the bench again. They are both clearly soused to the gills. It is an amusing display – Francis knows that when he was deep in his cups on a daily basis, he still managed to carry himself with much more dignity than these two. They are young though, he must give them that – he doubts they will suffer very much as the inebriation comes out of them again. 

“Good morning, Mister Crozier, how goes it?” Coningham grins, and his companion runs a hand through his tousled hair, pushing it back from his face in an attempt at neatness.

“Up and about already, Mister Crozier,” Fitzjames says, “and we not even gone to bed yet!” He snorts with laughter and claps Coningham on the back.

“We’ve been into town,” Coningham explains, slurring his words, and clearly so exhausted that he is having trouble keeping his eyes open. “At a dance.”

“I see,” Francis says. “Well you’d best be to bed, and don’t let your father catch you like this.” There is something vaguely exciting about being caught up in their mischief, but he knows he is not truly a part of it, and they do not wish him to be so. He is separate, set apart, as with most things in life.

The two young men clamber to their feet, Fitzjames nearly tripping over his own foot as he does so, which prompts giggling from both of them.

“Well,” Coningham says, straightening and trying to smooth out his coat. “Good morning, Mister Crozier.” He dips his head in a small bow. Francis does likewise, and he is about to do the same to Fitzjames when the young man suddenly affects a deep curtsey, his hands grasping at imaginary skirts, his head bowed and the curls of his hair falling around his face.

“Mister Crozier–” is all he manages to choke out before he is overcome with inelegant laughter, bent double, slapping his thigh, and Coningham elbows him in the side but he’s suddenly overtaken with laughter too. Francis realises he is the object of their ridicule and turns on his heel to head toward the house without another word.

Robert Coningham receives him with an “are you quite alright, sir?” and Francis is forced to muster himself and smile and try to forget the not quite friendly laughter he can still hear ringing in his ears.

For all the weeks Francis has been installed with the Rosses at Aston Abbots, Coningham’s sons are still mere acquaintances to him. The younger is pleasant enough, if shy and easily led by the eldest, who Francis has clearly offended in some way, because there seems to be an ever present scowl or a derisive smirk on his handsome face whenever they meet.

(Fitzjames _is_ handsome, and as much as he is irksome, Francis likes looking at him. He has always liked beautiful things, though they have rarely liked him back.)

Francis had had no intention of offending Fitzjames, and he cannot think what he has done to earn the young man’s contempt. This idea does not particularly bother him, however, because he has had a lifetime of genteel Englishmen looking down their nose at him, judging him for his looks and his clothes and his accent. It is a look which impresses upon him the feeling that he is only just good enough for polite society, like an unfortunate social faux pas or a poorly risen cake: not strictly welcome in fine London drawing rooms, but his presence must be contended with in any case. What’s more, Fitzjames is excessively arrogant, self assured and mocking, and thus Francis cannot mourn the fact that he seems to have lost Fitzjames’ good opinion. Indeed, Fitzjames has rather lost his.

Still, he is an interesting case, given the conspicuously different and faintly ridiculous surname, and Francis’ enquiring mind endeavours to seek out some answers.

“Might I ask, sir,” he asks in an innocuous tone, as he and Robert Coningham take tea together. “About the circumstances regarding Mister Fitzjames?”

Coningham gives him a sharp look over the rim of his glasses, and for a moment Francis fears that he has misspoken, but he watches Coningham’s mouth move as he considers his words.

“We took him in as an infant,” he eventually says in a measured tone. “From a family friend who – who could not keep him. We have raised him as our own.”

Francis nods. “I see. That explains the different surname, of course...and who is it you took him in from?”

Coningham’s brow furrows, his hand tightens around his teacup. “A family with whom we are close, as I said. I will say no more.”

“But his parents–”

“He is _our_ son,” Coningham cuts in, with a firm enough tone for Francis to know he has overstepped.

“Of course,” Francis says hurriedly. “Forgive me, I had no intention of implying otherwise. I do apologise. It is a very good thing you have done.”

This seems to calm Coningham down, and after a moment or two of an awkward silence, conversation eventually moves on. Francis had not meant to offend the old man, he had simply been curious – not that he cares enough about Fitzjames to want to know every detail of his biography, of course, but rather his is a scientific mind, and he likes having answers. He has built a career on it in the Discovery Service, albeit a career from which he is now retired. He had looked forward to retirement, returning from Antarctica with the idea that he finally had marriage firmly in his sights, but somewhere along the way he missed stays in an unfavourable wind, and Sophia out-sailed him as usual. 

Now he must contend with the politics of country life, he must contend with spoiled young men who think finely curled hair and an approximate knowledge of the world are enough to get by in life. The Discovery Service seems a Sunday stroll in comparison.

**\---**

  
  


“Now then, old boy,” James says with an authoritative air, as his brother settles down onto the sofa with a curious glint in his grey eyes. He has been summoned to the drawing room in great haste and secrecy, because James’ dramatic flair will not be denied. “I must confess that I have been hatching a plan – a plan which, if it comes to fruition, will bring you great happiness.”

Will raises his eyebrows, leaning back against the cushions and laying an arm along the back of the sofa, crossing his legs in a graceful motion that he has picked up from James, quite unconsciously. “Me? Well, you must tell me at once, if it concerns my happiness.” 

James smiles graciously. “You will have noticed, of course, how Miss Elizabeth Meyrick has come back into our acquaintance of late.” Will nods, and James cannot fight a grin. “I must now confess that it has not been by chance. The fact is – well. I intend to make a match for you.”

Will’s mouth falls open. “With her?”

James tuts. “Of course with her!” He surveys Will’s expression of amazement with sudden uncertainty, which is a feeling he has never enjoyed. “Are you not pleased? You were so close as children, and I remember how long the two of you talked at the dance last week.” How James subtly encouraged them to talk, he should say, but holds his tongue.

“Yes,” Will says with a start, as if he has just come back to himself. “Yes, I – I won’t lie, Jamie, I do think of her often, but surely she won’t – what makes you think she will–” 

“Hush,” James says, raising his hand as if offering a benediction. “This is what I am here for. I am prepared to do whatever I can to ensure that she sees you as nothing less than the finest gentleman in the country, and then there will be nothing for her to do but to fall madly in love with you – if she is not there already. I ran into her in town some weeks past, and you should have seen how she lit up when I mentioned a certain Mister William Coningham. It was as if her very heart’s desire was writ plain on her forehead.”

It is gratifying indeed to see Will flush red, embarrassed but obviously pleased, excited. They trust each other utterly, as brothers do, and James does not intend to betray that trust. He will do right by his brother, who regards him now with a teasing expression. “And what does Mister James Fitzjames know of fine ladies and their desires? I have never known you to take any sort of interest in their goings on.”

“Watch your tone, young man,” James says in a tone very reminiscent of their father, so much so that it makes Will laugh. “Do you want my help or not? You may be married before the year is out, if all goes to plan.”

“I suppose I must acquiesce,” Will sighs, as if it is a great hardship. “And what will you do once we are married – will you set your sights on other matches? Surely Mister Crozier is in want of a wife.”

Will laughs – they both laugh – and James sinks down onto the sofa next to him, hitting him in the chest with a small embroidered pillow. “I’m not a miracle worker,” James says. “Nor am I cruel. I would not dream of subjecting some poor girl to such an old bore.” 

“What a kind hearted fellow you are,” Will chuckles. “Right then, I suppose you must lay out your scheme in intricate detail, that I might be ready for it.”

James smiles with a dramatic flutter of his hands, like a conductor about to begin a great concerto, and lays out his battle-plan. 


	3. Chapter 3

The weeks pass, and as the end of the year approaches, the particular golden hue of an English autumn gives way to a biting winter. Snow is a rare beast, and Hertfordshire does not see much of it, but her ponds and lakes freeze as hard as iron, and every soft and green part of her is painted with a sparkling frost. At Aston Abbots, Christmas and New Year pass with blessed peace and calm, for which Francis is very grateful. It is nothing but long, cosy evenings with a book or two, and James and Ann quietly discussing baby names on the sofa. The child is not due for some months, but every day their excitement seems to grow further – Francis cannot imagine the levels of stress and joy and activity in this house once it actually arrives. 

Still, it heartens him to see it. He will not begrudge them their happiness, and contents himself with his reading.

He has trouble, however, contenting himself when he must drag himself from the quiet sanctuary of home to find himself at yet another party, in a house as grand as any other, whose name he has long forgotten. He had intended for the countryside to afford him a certain amount of privacy and quietude, but he has attended more of these events here than he ever did in London. He supposes there is nothing else to do but this, and that if one were a native, it would be much more agreeable.

(Not that Francis is a snob – Banbridge was hardly the jewel of Ireland’s social calendar – he is just not the outgoing and sociable creature that everyone else seems to be.)

The countryside around London is littered with these great houses, each filled with a great family eager to entertain and impress their wealth and sophistication upon their neighbours. It is a busy calendar, as with the changing of the seasons or the sowing and reaping of crops, so do the great and the good of Hertfordshire move around the county in turn, visiting different houses; but they are always the same dinners, the same conversation, the same posturing. Francis attends because Ross attends, and he knows that sitting alone in a great dark house will not improve his mood, but as he stands in the packed, stifling heat of yet another ornate drawing room, he does not think it possible for his temper to get much worse. 

He has his back to a wood panelled wall, out of sight, he hopes, with a glass of an uninspiring non-alcoholic fruit punch that was doubtless made for the children of the house. He could leave now and no one would notice – not even Ross, who is dancing with Ann. He watches how careful Ross is with her, with her swollen belly, and feels a vague, directionless sting of jealousy. All the dreams his younger self had for the future; a wife, children, a legacy, something he has built – he cannot help but feel that they are beyond him now.

Yes, Francis could leave this party, and go home and sit in his darkened room and brood, but in the crowd of well dressed gentlemen and their wives in fine dresses, laden with expensive jewellery, he spies James Fitzjames. He is alone, unusually for him, and Francis wonders as to the whereabouts of his brother. He looks across the room and finds his answer; William Coningham is in a quiet corner of the room, inspecting a grand painting of a sweeping landscape, of crumbling Italianate ruins, with a young woman at his side. They are clearly in deep discussion, with all the appropriate head nodding and head shaking and hand gestures that go with it.

Fitzjames is clearly watching them both with an intense gaze – is he jealous, perhaps? Is he hoping to woo the lady, but finds himself in second place? A mean sort of satisfaction goes through Francis at that thought, at the idea that Fitzjames does not always get what he wants. It might do him some good.

This thought fills Francis with a perverse dose of good cheer, and he feels he must talk to Fitzjames and see if he can wheedle out any details. With an innocent air he approaches Fitzjames, who notices him at the last minute and visibly stiffens.

“Your brother seems very taken by the young lady, Mister Fitzjames,” Francis says, nodding in the couple’s direction.

Fitzjames seems to relax again, and a smug sort of smile spreads across his face. “Indeed he does. It is so gratifying to see my hard work paying off at last.”

Any satisfaction at the idea of Fitzjames’ jealousy melts away, and Francis frowns. “ _ Your  _ hard work?”

“Oh, yes, bundling them into carriages together and so on. It’s been going so well lately, I’ve been encouraging him to write her some verses. Dreadful stuff before I cast my eye over it, of course, but quite pretty when it was finally sent off.”

Francis finds he has to close his eyes and allow a swell of irritation to wash over him. He opens them again, scowling up at this ridiculous young man. “I see,” he says flatly, feeling his good mood drain away and his sense returning to him – why on earth did he approach Fitzjames at all? “And may I ask why your brother needs such a benefactor?”

Fitzjames shrugs as if the answer might be obvious. “Well he’s shy, you see, and his health makes him quiet and unsure. He has been quite in love with her since he was thirteen, you know, and he has had no way of doing anything productive about it. So, I thought I ought to point them both in the right direction, so to speak.”

Some people might find this romantic, or deeply charming, but Francis is not moved. In principle it is a selfless act, to be so committed to the happiness of others, but the whole thing is riddled with Fitzjames’ self interest, his desire to be the star of this production, to be feted and congratulated on a job well done. “How lucky he is to benefit from his brother’s guiding hand,” Francis mutters.

“Quite so, Mister Crozier, I’ll drink to that!” Fitzjames has either not realised the sarcasm, or he has realised it and chooses to ignore it, because he smiles in an infuriatingly knowing way and lifts his glass, which catches the light and glints as red wine sloshes around inside. Francis has the impulse to grab the glass from him and dump its contents all over Fitzjames’ head. He stops himself, if only for the good of the fine Turkish rug under their feet. 

Francis spots that Ross and his wife have stopped dancing, and makes his way over to them without a word. Fitzjames does not seem to complain. 

“Are you having a good evening, Frank dear?” Ann asks, her cheeks flushed with exertion.

Francis summons his good cheer once more, because Ann certainly does not deserve his foul mood. He smiles. “It is much improved, having watched you both dance,” he replies, which makes her laugh.

“I need a drink after all that,” Ross says, scanning the crowd for a servant who might be carrying a tray. “Frank, what say you?”

“I’m fine for now,” Francis says, gesturing at his glass of disappointing punch, at which Ross grins.

“I shall return presently, then.” Ross turns to leave but Ann catches his arm.

“Hold on, darling, let me introduce you to a gentleman over there, the one I was telling you about–”

And with that, man and wife disappear into the throng of partygoers, and Francis finds himself alone again. He sighs slightly, aware of the ache in his legs that has come on from standing about so long in one place, and he wanders from the main drawing room into a smaller side room, dominated in one corner by an ornately decorated pianoforte, with sofas and chairs scattered around the place. It is quieter in here, and there is space to sit down, and only once Francis is settled does he notice Mister William Coningham and Miss Elizabeth Meyrick sat a short way from him. It is nothing so scandalous – they are not alone in the room, and a young man and lady may make polite conversation without being gawped at, but their proximity is noticeable. Francis is at once again reminded of Fitzjames’ meddling, and fights the urge to scowl.

They notice him at once, and greet him politely, and there is a period of small talk before the young lady enquires about his time in the Navy, and particularly his time in Antarctica. Francis cannot ignore how the room falls almost silent when those around them hear the question. He wishes almost immediately that he could get up and leave the room, but to spare the young lady her blushes, he is compelled to answer. 

It is a brief, truncated history, because he has never been one to talk about himself – his life’s work is boring and uninspiring to his own ears, he can’t imagine how it might sound to someone else. He tries not to talk for too long, but it is evidently long enough for him not to notice James Fitzjames entering the room, perching on the arm of the sofa on which his brother sits. 

When he has finished his strange little tale, his small assembled audience looks thoroughly impressed, and he is thanked profusely by Miss Meyrick, who directs at him yet more questions, about life on board a ship, the food and the sleeping arrangements and so on. Francis half wishes that she would not ask, because he feels firmly that he has taken up enough of the attention in this room and has outstayed his welcome. He wishes to leave, sorely wishes he were already back at home. Such is his discomfort and the concerted effort he is making to listen to the young lady, that he does not notice someone crossing the room towards him.

“Perhaps I should join the Navy, Mister Crozier.”

Francis looks up at him sharply. Fitzjames is chewing the inside of his cheek as he smiles at him.

“Perhaps,” Francis says, wishing, not for the first time, that he could tell what Fitzjames’ objective is, what he hopes to achieve with this repartee. “It is a fine employment for any young man.”

Someone in the room murmurs in agreement, but Fitzjames ignores it; his eyes do not leave Francis’ own. “It sounds so very thrilling. Sailing up and down and giving it to the French, and so on. And all those fine uniforms!” Fitzjames holds his fist to his hip, tilts his head a little. Ah, Francis sees the challenge now. Fitzjames is getting to his point. “Do you think I would look well in such a uniform, Mister Crozier?”

Francis feels his face heat, he feels the heat of eyes on him from around the room. He clenches his jaw, he curls his toes inside his shoes. “I daresay,” he eventually says, with an affected easiness. Fitzjames grins at him wickedly, and does not attempt to hide it. He thinks he has won, Francis knows. “Though it is a uniform that must be earned, through strength of will and a sense of duty. It is not a costume for a young gentleman who knows nothing of the world to try on in his leisure.”

Fitzjames’ smile vanishes as quickly as if he has been struck across the face. An audible snort of laughter comes from the direction of Fitzjames’ brother, who claps a hand across his mouth.

Francis fights the urge to laugh. He has never had Fitzjames on the back foot like this, he has never seen him look so bewildered and embarrassed and infuriated. It suits him far better than his usual proud mien. Francis thinks he could bear to see this expression again.

“Are you trying to insinuate there is such a gentleman present, sir?” Fitzjames eventually manages, though his voice does not have its usual robust quality. His eyes dart around the room, at those assembled there. His rapturous audience, Francis wonders how he must feel to have let them down so. Rose Hill’s shining star has given a poor showing tonight.

“Not at all,” he replies smoothly. “Merely a piece of advice from one who has experience of such things.”

Fitzjames can evidently not think of anything to say to this, and in any case he is interrupted from doing so.

“James,” says Miss Meyrick, getting up from the couch and approaching the piano, “come and help me, will you? I need someone to turn the pages.”

Fitzjames’ eyes slide between Francis and the young lady now seated on the piano stool. “Of course,” he eventually says, his reluctance and irritation visible as he turns from Francis to cross the room to her.

As the music starts, and when he is sure that no one is watching him, Francis allows himself a very small, self satisfied smile.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Will Coningham, who at birth was not gifted with the strongest of constitutions, again finds himself laid up in bed with a slight fever and a cough, and is endeavouring to enjoy the peace of a quiet, late February afternoon. James had brought him breakfast on a tray in the morning, and they had eaten together and talked, after which James left him alone to enjoy a few hours of blessed silence.

That silence, however, seems to now be at an end, as Will hears James’ heavy tread in the corridor, his bedroom door suddenly swinging open with a bang. “Will, I’m going for a ride, what say you?”

Will sighs, pulling the covers further up around him, as if James has brought in a gust of cold air with him. “Not now, I’m unwell.”

“Still?”

“Yes,  _ still _ . And it’s so dark outside, Jamie, look at those clouds. There’ll be a storm, surely.”

James scoffs. He has never been one to sit around inside, and Will considers it ironic that he has been saddled with a brother so frequently ill and given to bouts of fragility. “Nonsense. A bit of rain’s never stopped me before.”

“Alright, but be careful, won’t you?”

James gives a clumsy salute and a bad approximation of an Irish accent. “Aye, Captain.”

Will tuts, pushing himself up on his elbows, sitting back against his pillows with a huff of effort. “You’re very cruel to him, you know.”

James purses his lips and looks away, studies the placement of his fingers around the door handle as if it is of incredible interest. “He’s cruel to me too.”

“Only because you torment him. It’s always you, starting everything. Just leave the old man alone, for goodness’ sake.”

A wry smile appears on James’ face. “You’re starting to sound like Father. Am I to see you in the pulpit on Sunday?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Oh, very good. Go on then, if you’re so desperate for some fresh air. Don’t fall off your horse, or anything stupid.”

James scoffs and tosses his hair out of his eyes. “I never do anything stupid.”

Less than thirty minutes later, James ponders the fact that he has done something quite stupid. The rain had started not half a mile from the house, and by the time he was out in the fields, the wind was whipping fiercely around him and the ground was soaked and thick with mud, and with each step his horse grew less and less willing to carry on.

Eventually she stopped altogether, and with an annoyed groan James made to dismount, to try and lead her back the way they had come. However, as he swung his leg over her, she lurched forwards suddenly, painfully twisting the foot still in its stirrup, sending him stumbling backwards and to the ground.

The sensation of lying in the cold grass and the wet mud is not as unpleasant as the sharp pain shooting up from James’ ankle, and as he scrambles to his feet he finds it can not bear much weight at all. He watches his horse idly wander towards a large beech tree, seeking shelter from the rain, grazing on the sodden grass.

“You terrible strumpet,” he hisses in the creature’s direction, though he will not admit to it later. “What the hell am I going to do now?” The horse has no reply for him, and as he stands awkwardly, balancing precariously on one foot, he considers hopping back to Rose Hill, how long it might take and whether he is up to it at all. A crack of thunder rolls across the sky, and he decides to follow the horse’s example and hops rather absurdly and inelegantly to the shelter of the tree’s broad branches. He sits down heavily against the trunk, stretching his bad leg gingerly out in front of him, and stares out at the rolling hills, the iron grey sky and the curtains of rain lashing the landscape. He decides there is nothing he can really do until (or  _ if)  _ the rain abates, so for now he can only wait. 

He is deep in thought, considering all the ways in which he is a bloody idiot, when he notices a figure on horseback approaching, hunched against the rain, coming the opposite way to him. They must be heading to Rose Hill, or at least to the village, and James lets out a piercing whistle to attract their attention, waving his arms above his head. He is not far off the path but it is surprisingly dark in the shade of the tree, and it seems to have worked anyway, for the rider has noticed him and is coming closer, and it’s – oh damn – 

Francis Crozier gets off his horse and stares down at him with undisguised bewilderment. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m having a picnic,” James snaps, “What does it look like? I–” He is forced to pause and collect his thoughts, to figure out how best to explain his humiliation to the one person he does not want to see. “I fell, getting off my horse. And my damn ankle – I don’t think it’s broken but it  _ hurts,  _ I can’t put weight on it.”

Crozier frowns, taking this all in, and steps closer, under the bower of the tree. He takes off his hat and dries his face with his handkerchief. “A lovely day for a ride.”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” James says sharply.

It may be the rain dripping from his hair into his eyes, but he thinks he sees Crozier smile at him. “No, it wasn’t raining when I left either. I thought I could make it to see your father before the storm, but I clearly misjudged it.” Crozier tucks his handkerchief away again, and looks him over. “What’s to be done with you, then?”

James looks down at his ankle. He twitches his foot slightly and regrets it when a spark of pain ricochets up his leg. “I don’t know,” he says, leaning heavily on the tree trunk as he tries to get to his feet – foot – and has to give up, slumping down again. “Can you just help me onto my horse?”

Crozier’s mouth purses, considering this. “I don’t think you’re in a fit state to ride. We’ll have to walk back.”

James blinks at him. “Walk? Are you blind?” He gestures down at his leg as if Crozier might have missed it.

“Well I’ll help you, won’t I,” Crozier says gruffly, taking another step towards him, holding out his arms. James watches him warily, as if expecting something unpleasant, and then reaches out to take his hands, and lets Crozier help him to his feet. He puts an arm around Crozier’s shoulders, Crozier’s arm goes around his waist, holding him tightly, pressing their sides together. It is such a surprising and enjoyable sensation that it steals James’ breath for a moment.

“Right,” Crozier says, voice slightly strained with effort, “let’s try that.” 

He takes a step forwards and James shuffles along with him, putting as little weight on his injured foot as he can, grabbing at the shoulder of Crozier’s coat with clawed fingers. “What about the horses?” He is almost breathless from the pain, from the exertion, from the feeling of Crozier’s broad palm pressing securely against his waist.

“Leave them,” Crozier replies, “I’ll send someone back for them when we reach the house.”

It is in this way that they stagger awkwardly across the field, and by the time they reach the next, they notice the rain has stopped. “Small mercies,” Crozier says when they stop to rest, James leaning heavily on a stone gatepost, scraping his wet hair back from his face and desperately trying to catch his breath. 

“And the day was already going so well,” he eventually manages, which makes Crozier laugh.

“Ready to carry on?” Crozier asks, and James nods. They resume their positions. James could say he did not enjoy it, but that would be a lie. Crozier’s shoulders are broad, and even through the sodden wool of his grey coat, James can feel the strength in them. His own hand across them feels proprietary, and deliciously grasping. “Not far now,” Crozier says, “just through this field and then we’ll be on the road again. No more mud.”

“Praise the Lord,” James groans. “I’ll be happy if I never see mud again.”

Crozier smiles. “Well, by the looks of it, you’ve brought half the mud in Hertfordshire back with you.”

James looks down at himself. The front of him seems not to have fared too badly, but he can only imagine how the back looks. “Have I?”

“You have,” Crozier affirms, “It’s made a mess of your clothes, not to mention your pretty hair.”

James finds he has nothing to say to this, and Crozier seems to have nothing to add, clearing his throat and staring fixedly off into the distance, and the rest of the walk is silent.

Louisa Coningham is in the doorway as they approach the house, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “James!” She cries as they get close to her. “Where on earth have you been? What has happened to you?”

“He’s alright, Mrs Coningham,” Crozier says before James can answer her. “A twisted ankle and a bit of mud, nothing that won’t heal. Lucky I was passing by.”

“Oh, yes,” Louisa says, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Mister Crozier, what would we do without you?” She turns to gesture sharply at James. “Upstairs with you at once, young man, a hot bath and then bed. Goodness knows why you were out in this weather, you’ll catch your death of cold–”

“Please, Mama, I’m fine,” James protests, entirely too old to be babied like this, but the look in her eyes silences any more complaints. 

He feels Crozier’s arm leave his waist, and James’ arm slides from Crozier’s shoulders as the man steps away. “I should see to having the horses brought back,” he says, and Louisa clutches at his arm again, offering her profound thanks.

James opens his mouth, intending to do the same, but finds he can’t summon the words. Crozier seems to understand however, because he nods a little, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile. He bows briefly to Louisa and leaves them, going around the side of the house to the stables.

James feels dissatisfaction settle on him as he watches Crozier walk away. He had meant to thank him properly – he had meant to say something, anything, instead of standing there with his mouth open like a fool. Despite his dislike of Crozier, he feels a rush of gratefulness, a rush of something like  _ appreciation,  _ which is unsettling to say the least. He has no time to think about it for too long, however, as Louisa bundles him inside, helping him into the warmth of his bedroom, where a ready fire is burning merrily in the grate. 

Once James is washed and fed, he sleeps solidly and wakes the next day to a much recovered, if rather swollen, ankle. To his surprise, and Will’s intense jealousy, he does not catch a cold, and instead hobbles around Will’s bedroom reading aloud from whatever book takes his brother’s fancy. This is something he is used to: taking the form of Will’s sickbed entertainment, helping him pass the long, tedious hours of confinement. It would have been a very lonely childhood for them both, if James had not been around to bring levity and laughter into Rose Hill’s sunny rooms.

On this particular instance, however, he is clearly distracted; he reads briskly and monotonously as he paces, and with each turn of the room he casts his eyes out of the window and across the front lawn, as if expecting to catch sight of someone.

“What is it, James?” Will asks at last, when James has read the same sentence three times in a row without realising it. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” James says immediately, but he sinks into a chair by the window, his gaze still fixed on some unknown point outside. “I don’t suppose you know if Father has invited that Crozier over again, do you?”

“Why, what are you planning?” Will frowns, picturing some new and elaborate scheme to torment poor Mister Crozier as much as possible.

James looks sharply at him, with a very affronted expression. “Nothing at all.” He sighs a little, slumps his shoulders and looks down at the book in his hands, running a finger along the worn spine. “He was very kind, helping me home like that yesterday.”

“You seem surprised,” Will says, gesturing for the book. James carelessly lobs it across the room in his direction, and it lands in Will’s lap with a thump. He flips through the pages slowly, trying to find where James had left off. “You’ve been cruel to him for months and now you finally realise he doesn’t deserve it.”

James furrows his brow, but doesn’t attempt to argue the point. He has been cruel, he knows that, but it has not been born out of malice or hatred, rather he has been driven to it by how fascinating Crozier and his stubborn opinions are, how easy it is to tease and rile him, how he goes red about the face and neck. It is more entertaining to James than any sport or game he has ever tried – except perhaps one, into which he was initiated by one of the stable boys in the hayloft, one hot August afternoon, when his parents were in town – and, apart from his matchmaking, irritating Crozier has been the one ray of light in an otherwise very dull series of parties and dinners.

“Have you had a change of heart, then?” Will eventually asks into the pensive silence. “Will you cease your teasing?”

James blinks at him, and then grins. “There’s no fun in that, dear brother. Besides,” he gets up from the chair, testing his weight on his ankle, stretching his arms above his head in that careless and graceful way that reminds Will of a house cat. “He’ll be expecting it now.”

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

When Francis Crozier thinks back to how he happened upon an injured James Fitzjames in a sodden field in the middle of a storm, he thinks it must surely have been the strangest afternoon of his life. It had all been by chance and coincidence – a case of being in the right place at the right time, of being honour-bound to help a neighbour in distress, even if that neighbour was Mister James Fitzjames of Rose Hill.

No, he was happy to help, and would have helped any individual he found in such a situation, but he thinks that he must blame his current state of mind on the fact that it  _ was  _ Fitzjames, and no one else.

For what a heady rush of pleasure he had felt as he slid his arm around Fitzjames’ waist and pulled them flush against each other! How his heart had sped, sent racing by more than just the physical exertion of supporting the weight of another person. He knows now, intimately, the shape of Fitzjames’ slender physique. He has felt the hard angle of Fitzjames’ hip under his hand. He has felt Fitzjames’ arm around him, holding onto him for dear life, and it had all pleased him far more that it should have done.

Francis thinks occasionally about going over to Rose Hill to enquire after Fitzjames’ ankle, or perhaps sending a messenger with a note, but his dreams and his desires trouble him, and he does not wish to make a spectacle of himself. 

It is an infatuation, he knows this now. Despite Fitzjames’ arrogant demeanour, his unkindness, despite everything he has done that should make Francis want to stay away from him – Francis is quite infatuated. He tries not to worry. It is a superficial thing, he reasons, and that there is no harm in it, just as there is no harm in admiring a pretty painting, or a particularly well built ship of the line. He is an admirer of beauty, as so many people are. Fitzjames is beautiful, and Francis certainly desires him, but given time, he is confident that these strange feelings will fade again. He is no stranger to unresolved desires; this will not be much of a hardship for him. 

His trials are made easier still when Ross suggests they go down to London – he has business to attend to but they could easily find time to meet old friends, visit some restaurants and do some shopping – since becoming a father he has found how greatly he loves to dote upon and spoil his infant son – and Francis readily agrees, if just for a change of scenery, a chance for diversion.

They are kept in that great city for two weeks, and by the time they pass through Aston Abbots’ wrought iron gates, Francis feels much refreshed, his panic and his yearning both greatly diminished.

When he does next see Fitzjames, it is on a bright Sunday morning, just after Robert Coningham’s sermon has come to a close. The congregation are eager to leave the sweltering interior of the church, seeking the soft breeze blowing through the trees. Francis bids farewell to Ross and his wife, who must hurry home on account of the child, and he sees Fitzjames leaning against the low stone wall of the churchyard. When he catches Francis’ eye, he smiles.

“Good morning, Mister Crozier,” he says mildly as Francis approaches, doffing his hat.

“Good morning,” Francis says, in a tone that he hopes is not as eager as he feels.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”

“Well, yes,” Francis begins, feeling an odd pang guilt. “I’ve been in London. I hope your family are well, is your brother recovered from his illness?”

Fitzjames nods. “He is quite recovered. As is my ankle.” They both look down at it, as if expecting something changed or different there, and Francis has to look away hurriedly, not wanting his eyes to stray up the long stretch of Fitzjames’ stockinged legs.

“I am glad to hear it.” Francis glances about at the churchyard, slowly emptying as people make their way home again. “Are your parents not around?”

“They’ll be taking the carriage home with Will. I prefer to walk, it being such a nice day.” Fitzjames pushes off from the wall to stand at his full height – Francis always seems to forget Fitzjames is taller than himself. “Would you care to join me?”

Francis blinks. “Would I – yes, why not. Good to stretch one’s legs after an overlong sermon. With no offence to your father, of course.”

(Francis tries to tell himself it is just the prospect of a good walk that has made him agree, but he knows this to be a lie.)

Fitzjames laughs and sets off in the direction of the far corner of the church yard, where a gate leads into the woods. “Oh no, I quite agree. It’s rather like torture sometimes.”

They walk in silence for a time, sunshine dappling the path ahead of them as it shines through the trees. On either side of the path, the ground is carpeted with a thick spread of bluebells, the air is warm and sweet. Francis is vaguely surprised that Fitzjames has voluntarily asked for his company, though he is not surprised that he has voluntarily given it, but on such a nice day it is hard to confront any difficult questions in his mind.

“Did you see Miss Meyrick while you were in London?”

Francis glances over at Fitzjames, who is walking upright with his hands clasped behind his back. He looks strikingly like a Navy man, and Francis wonders who he has picked up this stance from – Ross, or someone else, or perhaps even himself. “I’m afraid not. Is she travelling?”

Fitzjames nods. “She has gone to Brighton with her parents for the summer. A damned shame if you ask me, I felt there was real progress being made, I’d hate for it all to wilt now.”

Francis fights back a sigh. He has never approved of this matchmaking, and wishes Fitzjames would not bring it up now. He has barely thought of it these past weeks, hoping it would simply never be mentioned again. A couple should come together on their own, without the urging of an interested third party. A couple should be able to encounter love together, as he and Sophia had – it had been love, for a time, hadn’t it? “Well, perhaps that’s for them to decide. If there’s affection between them, it’ll weather a summer apart.”

“I don’t doubt it,” James nods, “but I had hoped to have it done by now.”

Francis has to close his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. “‘Have it done?’ You talk as if they are your playthings.” Fitzjames stares at him blankly, as if he cannot comprehend what Francis is saying. Francis sighs. “If they love each other, they will discover it for themselves. You cannot force it upon them.”

Fitzjames waves a dismissive hand, an action which Francis finds equal parts patronising and infuriating. “I’m not forcing a thing. I’m simply helping them come to a conclusion they would have reached in time anyway. I’m just hurrying things along.”

Francis barely conceals an incredulous snort of laughter. “What for? What on earth could be the rush? You just – you just want to be able to take the credit for it,” he says, irritation washing over him anew as he comes to this conclusion. His good mood and his embarrassing eagerness to see Fitzjames again lie in ashes on the ground. “To be able to say that it was your success. It’s selfish.”

“Selfish!” Fitzjames comes to a stop and turns on him, jabbing an accusing finger against Francis’ chest. “Is it so selfish to want to see my own dear brother married and settled? His happiness means more to me than anything.”

“Forgive me,” Francis snaps, “but I very much doubt that. You are utterly obsessed with your own happiness, your own delights and whims, to the detriment of everyone around you.”

James laughs callously. “I had no idea you were such an expert in matters of my happiness, Mister Crozier.”

There is a moment of silence as Francis glares at him and realises his hands are shaking with the contained force of his rage, and all of a sudden his hands are on James’ shoulders, pushing him up against the nearest tree, hooking around the back of his neck to pull him in for a fierce kiss.

James makes a wretched sort of noise which does not suggest displeasure, and his hands fisting in the lapels of Francis’ coat, pulling him closer, seem to confirm this. James’ mouth is delightfully warm, and might have been soft with more tender application, but for now he is keen and questing and the way his tongue seeks out Francis’ own makes Francis think that James is no stranger to this. He wonders which men James has had, or which have had him, and where – up against this very tree perhaps. Francis would not be surprised to learn that this whole folly is some elaborate scheme conceived by James, days or weeks ago, in a moment of boredom.

There is nothing that James does not thoroughly plan.There is nothing that he leaves to chance, and so it must be with this; even in his own head, Francis is reluctant to think that he could possibly have taken James by surprise. The idea thrills him all the same. James’ hands in his hair thrill him.

Eventually, inevitably, they have to pull back for air. Francis is out of breath and he knows he has gone very red, as James has, though he is sure it looks much more dignified on James than it does on himself.

James stares at him, his mouth wet, his chest heaving, his eyes unfathomably dark. He looks so inviting that Francis feels he must kiss him again, but he can hear the clapping of hooves and the rumbling of carriage wheels on the road, not fifteen yards away through the trees. James’ eyes dart in the direction of the noise, getting louder and louder, and he suddenly swears viciously and pushes Francis away from him, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and looking around desperately to see where his hat has fallen. Francis stumbles backwards, manages to locate and replace his own hat, spinning around to see the barouche drawing to a halt in front of them.

It is the Coninghams, of course. It is Robert Coningham along with his wife and son, because fate has never liked to be too kind to Francis. 

Coningham squints in their direction, and breaks out into a smile as James picks his way through the trees to approach the carriage. “I say, James, I thought that was you! I was sure you would have been home by now, what’s been keeping you?”

“Yes, Father, I ran into Mister Crozier, and we’ve–” a slight pause as Fitzjames clears his throat, “we’ve been discussing religion.”

Francis feels that this is his cue, steels himself and steps towards the road. Fitzjames doesn’t look at him, doesn’t turn to acknowledge him at all, and Francis forces a smile onto his face as he greets those assembled in the carriage.

“Well!” Coningham claps his hands together. “Just the thing for a Sunday morning. You must come home for lunch with us, Mister Crozier, and you can continue your discussion there.”

Francis wonders how likely it is that the earth will suddenly open up and swallow him whole. He also considers catching the next coach to Ramsgate and hurling himself into the sea. “How kind of you, sir, but I’m afraid Sir James and Lady Ann are expecting me. I imagine they will already be waiting.”

At this, Fitzjames does turn to look at him, unconvinced, clearly not believing this invention. He is hardly about to argue, however, and as Francis makes his apologetic goodbyes, Fitzjames yanks open the door of the barouche and climbs inside, sitting down heavily next to his brother.

The carriage sets off again on its way down the lane, and once it has rounded a corner and is out of sight, Francis lets out an incredible sigh, feeling almost weak in the knees with relief, and he sets off at once in the direction of Aston Abbotts, thundering into the front hall with such force that he startles a maid, and sets the baby off crying somewhere upstairs.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_ Mister Fitzjames, I feel I must write to explain my actions of Sunday last, in order to _

No, this won’t do. Francis leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh, putting his pen aside and crumpling the sheet of paper up into a ball. He tosses it into the fireplace, watching the flames consume it. He tries again on a blank page.

_ Mister Fitzjames, please believe me when I say that I had no intention of _

Another ball of paper into the flames. Shadows dance around the room as it disintegrates.

_ James, I think about you all the time  _

Certainly not. This note joins the others in the fire, and Francis watches intently, until he is sure that every word has burnt away, singed and blackened to nothingness. He knows it is useless to try and put his thoughts to paper in a way that is at all coherent and not ridiculous.

He knows this is what he is, after all; a ridiculous old man with immoral desires, with thoughts above his station, a man with a heart that wants what it does not deserve.

He wants James Fitzjames, despite every logical part of his brain telling him it is a terrible notion. They barely get on, after all, and he is sure that whatever affection he has for Fitzjames is vastly outweighed by the irritation that his well bred voice sparks in him. When is the last time they had a conversation without it descending into an argument? Has it ever happened? Has Fitzjames ever had a kind word for him?

Fitzjames, who knows nothing of the world and yet still insists on acting like he does, still insists on acting like his charm and beauty and sparkling wit set him aside from everyone else. It is true that he is charming, and he is witty, and Francis cannot deny his beauty (does not want to deny his beauty), but he is also arrogant and blustering and infinitely irritating. 

And yet, when Francis lies in bed, in his darkened room, he imagines Fitzjames lying with him, on his side, propped up on an elbow, an easy smile on his face.  _ Francis,  _ he might say,  _ dearest Francis,  _ and the night would make him gentle and kind and loving, and Francis would take him into his arms and kiss him and hold him tight and realise that maybe what they have between them is not aggressive and bitter, but rather something warm and alive and growing. 

Francis Crozier is a ridiculous man.

Following that lamentable kiss on that bright morning after church, and having abandoned his plans of penning some sort of note of explanation, Francis does not have occasion to see Fitzjames for nearly a week. In that time he is wretched, sleeping poorly and aimlessly wandering around Aston Abbots to such a degree that Ross notices, and asks him what is wrong.

“I have behaved very ill,” he says, and when Ross presses him for the specifics, he will not yield.

“Have you offended someone?” Ross eventually asks, sounding faintly exasperated.

This gives Francis pause. He does not rightfully know. He has not talked to Fitzjames, he has not been able to ascertain it. But then again – of course Fitzjames must be offended. For Francis to manhandle him like that, to kiss him in such a coarse manner – when they had been in the middle of an argument! He would not blame Fitzjames if he never wanted to set eyes on Francis again.

“Perhaps,” Francis eventually says, and Ross sighs and pats him on the shoulder.

“Then you must apologise, dear Frank,” he says in a knowing, fatherly tone which Francis suspects he will use on his children, once they are older. “You must talk to them and apologise, and if they have any sense, they will see that you are sincere and will forgive you. And then all will be well.”

Francis fights off a bitter laugh. Would that it were as easy as all that!

Ross has the right of it though – he will apologise, yes, but he cannot for one moment be assured of Fitzjames’ forgiveness. If Fitzjames does not deign to see him, if the doors of Rose Hill are closed to him from now on – Francis deserves it. He has been the undeserved recipient of much unjust behaviour in his life, but he would deserve this.

The next time he sees Fitzjames, it is at a party in yet another fine house, yet another stifled and stuffy drawing room, lit up with candles and mirrors, tables laden with little cakes and jellies and vases of flowers. Francis would be hard pressed to pick the party’s hosts out of a crowd, but he thinks the name is Hodgson – yes, the eldest son fancies himself a musical talent, as Francis recalls, and there he is on the pianoforte. Gratifyingly, he plays well, else Francis would not have been able to make it through the evening.

Francis had hoped to find Fitzjames alone – he is much easier to approach when he is alone – but he is surrounded by three or four other young men, all of them firmly ensconced in what is apparently the most amusing conversation that any of them has ever had. Francis knows he has no hopes of invading this stronghold, and resigns himself to standing awkwardly, some distance away, until Fitzjames notices him.

Blessedly, this does not take long. Their eyes meet, and a series of emotions flash across Fitzjames’ face, before a closed off sort of suspiciousness settles there, and he excuses himself from his friends, making his way over to Francis.

Lord, but he is a lovely sight, even with such a look on his face, even though he has not given Francis leave to think it.

“Might I talk to you?” Francis asks, his voice lowered, once Fitzjames is close enough to hear. “In private?”

Fitzjames draws himself up slightly, glances around at anyone who might be close enough to hear them. “If you must,” he says with disdain, or perhaps distrust, in his voice, but Francis cannot ignore the way Fitzjames is staring at his mouth.

Francis leads him out of the party to the covered porch at the back of the house, where honeysuckle, jasmine, and clematis plants climb and curl around trellises and columns. They make sure to stand where no one might see them through the house’s tall windows, and Fitzjames leans against a column with an insouciant air, waiting for Francis to speak. A tendril of jasmine, bedecked with delicate white flowers, hovers near his cheek, as if seeking him out like it might seek out the sun.

Francis clears his throat. There is nothing left now but for him to speak the words, to broach the subject that has been keeping him up at night. “I want to apologise. For – for that Sunday. For forcing myself on you like that.”

He notes how Fitzjames’ eyebrows raise in surprise, how the suspicious twist of his mouth disappears, but Francis ploughs on. This must be said, he must be heard.

“It was uncouth and ungentlemanly. I behaved very poorly, and for that I am sorry.” He clasps his hands tightly behind his back, staring resolutely at the floor. After a few seconds of unbearable silence, he glances up again at Fitzjames, who, to his surprise, is smiling.

“It  _ was  _ quite uncouth, yes,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest. “But you must have a fickle sort of memory, Mister Crozier, because I enjoyed it just as much as you did. Do you think I would have suffered you to kiss me, if I did not want it? I would have knocked you flat on your back. Mud all over your Sunday best.” 

Francis, despite himself, laughs. Fitzjames’ face seems to light up at the sound. “Well, I must say I am relieved. Twas a brand new coat.”

There is a burst of laughter from inside the house, and they both turn to the source of the noise. Conversation seems to come to them in waves, drifting through the still air in ebbs and flows. Francis feels quite strangled by it, and quite alone, all at once. When he turns back to Fitzjames, there is an awful soft look on his face.

“What are we to do now?” Fitzjames asks. Francis wants to take his face in his hands and kiss him, softly, soundly, until he is gasping for breath and grabbing at Francis for more.

“I would like it if we could stop being enemies.”

Fitzjames laughs. “Oh, we were never that.”

Francis raises an eyebrow, and Fitzjames has the good grace to flush slightly and look away in embarrassment. “I would like it,” Francis says again, “if we could be friends.”

“Yes,” Fitzjames says softly. “I would like that too, Mister Crozier.”

“You must call me Francis,” says Francis.

“Only if you will call me James,” says James.

\---

In the spirit of newly found friendship, James agrees to go over the hill to Aston Abbots, that he and Crozier – _ Francis –  _ might walk the perimeter of the lake, and pass a pleasant morning together. 

James does not want to lie to himself, and will freely admit that he has spent most waking hours since that kiss thinking about it.Thinking about how he tried to tell himself he didn’t want it, but in truth  _ did  _ want it, and if it were to happen again, he would not be much put out.

It is a dangerous thing to think though, when they have so recently committed to being friends. Friends do not argue, nor do they kiss one another in a rage in the woods after church. Friends take walks on sunny mornings, as they are now doing. 

It is perhaps a little awkward in the beginning, now that they are not trying to irritate each other. James feels that he does not quite know what to say, and as they walk from the house down to the lake, there is but general conversation; the weather, the health of various families, a discussion about a newly published novel.

“Do you like Hertfordshire?” Francis suddenly asks, which makes James look over at him in surprise.

“Why, yes. It’s a very pleasant place, is it not? I suppose I will always think that, it is all I have known. You would say the same about–” James waves his hand vaguely. “About wherever it is in Ireland that you come from.” 

“I suppose that is true,” Francis agrees, and there is a furtive sort of look to him, as if he is about to say something shocking. “Only your father told me, once, about how they took you in, how you are a – an orphan.”

An unpleasant ripple of shock runs down James’ spine. He bares his teeth with something that is not quite a smile. “Oh no, not that,” he says with an affected carelessness. “My real father is quite alive. In Brazil, of all places, have you ever been?”

(Francis has been to Brazil; he has stood on the docks of Rio de Janeiro in the sweltering heat and looked up at the mountains surrounding the town, but thinks that James does not really want to hear this.)

He shakes his head. James stares at him, and thinks –  _ to hell with it _ . Let him know. Someone ought to know, after all this time. He would rather Francis know than anyone else – this strange, serious man with earnest eyes who still seems so drawn to James even after all his ill treatment. This man who has occupied James’ mind for months – for reasons good and bad – who seems to want to  _ know _ him. Yes, let him know.

“I’m a bastard,” he pronounces, watches how Francis startles a little. “Born out of an affair. I was never told my mother’s name. I was bundled out of Brazil and brought to England and foisted upon the first poor fools to agree to take me. And here we are.” He grins suddenly, caught up in the adrenaline of putting it all into words. For too long it has rattled around in his head, and now it is out in the world, with someone else to share the burden of this secret. He feels he might even laugh.

Francis’ mouth falls open with surprise, and for a moment he seems to be scrambling for something to say. “I had no idea,” he eventually manages.

“Of course not.” James says. He fiddles with one of the buttons on his coat, and then sighs, his shoulders drooping. “I’ve never told anyone. It’s a sordid tale, Francis, not fit for polite society. I hardly go around telling people.”

“Well, I–” Francis starts. “I’m glad you told me.”

James does not know what he means by this, fixes him a puzzled frown.

“I don’t mean I’m glad to hear it, I mean – I’m glad you felt able to tell me. I’m glad we can talk about things like this. As friends.”

James nods once. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

They have come across a wooden bench, nestled between two trees, looking out across the lake. James sits down with a sigh, taking off his hat and running his hand through his hair. He looks up at Francis, who seems to be weighing up his options, and eventually joins him on the bench.

There is silence for a while. The wind has picked up slightly, sending ripples across the surface of the water. A little kingfisher darts about and settles on a branch, its beady eye looking intently for signs of the movement of fish beneath the surface.

“It’s hardly sordid,” Francis eventually says, glancing over at James, and then out at the water. “You say it as if it were some fault of your own.”

James shrugs. Maybe it was. He was the one who had to come along into the world, after all. He tilts his head back and stares at the sky. There are dark clouds on the horizon, threatening rain, but for now they are safe, and the sun shines. “I do sometimes wish I could just be someone else. Live a different life.”

“I think we all wish that, sometimes,” Francis says.

James smiles slightly. “I sometimes wish I could have lived  _ your _ life.”

An incredulous frown settles on Francis’ face, as if he has never heard anything as daft. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not!” James exclaims, feeling slightly put upon, embarrassed for not having expected that reaction.

“Why on earth would you want that?” Francis asks, still looking at him with that puzzled furrowing of his brows.

James scoffs. “Because – because you have lived, Francis! You’ve sailed the world and seen things I can only imagine, you’re clever and serious and so – so  _ proper,  _ such a proper person, and I’m–” he breaks off, grabbing a fistful of his own hair, suddenly realising he has no idea where he wants to go with this. He means it, certainly, but he had not meant to be so open. How well he can usually keep his feelings bottled away, how Francis has a way of getting to the heart of him. “I’m just–”

“You’re not _ just _ anything,” Francis says, reaching over to put his hand on James’ shoulder, sliding it down to his elbow. How warm and solid it feels on James’ skin, even through all his layers of clothing.

The touch startles James slightly, shakes loose a strange desperation in his heart. He grabs Francis’ hand to pull it off his arm, but keeps hold of him tightly by the wrist. “Oh stop it, I’m  _ nothing _ , you hear? I’ve no name, no history, no  _ real  _ family, and try as I might, I know I won’t ever be able to make it up to the Coninghams. I can’t ever repay them for taking me in.”

Francis shakes his head slightly, his hand flexing in James’ hold. “They hardly did it with compensation in mind. They love you like a son.”

“And what a disappointing son he is,” James snaps. “Will has his aspirations of art, and – and politics, and no door will ever be closed to him. He can do whatever he sets his mind to, whereas I – I’m limited, aren’t I?”

“I understand that more than you think, James.” Francis’ tone is measured, almost irritating in its evenness, and James scowls at him.

“How? You’re no bastard.”

Francis fixes him with a pointed look, and even with his emotions roiling around inside him like a turbulent sea, James is suddenly calm enough to understand him. Francis’ birthplace, his voice – of course they hold him back. James knows how men of substance, _ English _ men of substance, can look down on those they do not consider worthy. He supposes his real father must be such a man. James might still be with him, if not. He feels foolish for not realising it before, for not realising that the doors closed to him are likely closed to Francis as well. He is little more than a naive and uneducated child. What does he know of the world, what does he know of anything? 

How Francis must pity him, great man of science that he is, and there is nothing in the world that James wants less than his pity. 

“Well, alright,” James says sharply, sharper than he intends, but he feels he must put up his defences. Francis has seen the vulnerable heart of him; he must not be allowed to strike at it. “I take your point. I’m sorry for such a – an unbecoming display.”

“James,” Francis says with a sigh. He wrests his wrist from the grasps of James’ fingers, and gently encloses James’ hand in both of his own. James watches this, watches Francis’ thumb stroke in steady circles against his palm, feels himself flushing. “There was a lady I wanted to marry, quite recently, in fact, and I had thought – I let myself believe that her wants and my own were in tandem. They were not, it turns out. I do believe she loved me, but it wasn’t sufficient. I am Irish, she said, and middle born – and I don’t recall the rest. I wasn’t enough, anyway.  _ That _ door was closed to me.” He squeezes James’ hand, a keenly sweet and keenly sad smile on his face. “We are more alike than we first thought, I think.”

James nods slowly. “Yes, I think so.” Francis squeezes his hand again. “I am sorry for how she treated you. Then again, if she had, you never would have come here.”

Francis chuckles, and releases his hand. It feels as cold as if he has taken off a glove in the dead of winter. Francis gets to his feet, looking down towards the end of the lake that they have not yet reached. “Come,” he says, “let’s keep going. We’ll have rain in an hour or so.”

“I thought the same,” James says, as he stands up from the bench and follows Francis along the lake's shore.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Despite what Francis already knows of the couple and their developing relationship, the announcement of the engagement of Mister William Coningham and Miss Elizabeth Meyrick still comes as somewhat of a surprise to him. If this news had come a year ago, it might have acted as a bitter reminder of his own failures; it might fill him with jealousy and regret and every other emotion which wishes to cause him pain. Now, however, he feels a strange sense of satisfaction. To know that James’ efforts have paid off pleases him in a way he could not expect.

An invitation to Rose Hill, to celebrate the occasion, pleases him further.

The couple in question seem to radiate with delight, as if love could cast a golden light around them, as if pleasure could light up a room, and happiness could warm a house.

Francis finds himself quite at his leisure, and is even able to approach young Coningham and shake him heartily by the hand, wishing him joy at this happy news. As they sit down for dinner, and everyone raises a glass to the happy pair, Francis catches James’ eye across the table, and especially catches his smug expression, his proud smile.

Francis feels at once an old sting of irritation, then, but the longer he looks, the more it seems to ebb away, and suddenly it is oddly satisfying to see James looking so accomplished, with the result of his good works so close at hand.

“It will be your turn next, Mister Fitzjames,” Ross says across the table, to general laughter.

James smiles graciously, swirling his wine around in his glass in an effortless way that Francis would have once found maddening. “I can only lament that Miss Meyrick has no remaining unmarried sisters.” There is more laughter, and James raises his glass to the young lady at the end of the table, but his dark eyes remain firmly on Francis, and Francis could not dream of looking away.

The dinner, though most agreeable, does rather drag on, as it always does when there are other things on one’s mind. Francis makes conversation with Mrs Coningham on his right, and with Mrs Meyrick on his left, but the one person he wishes to talk to is on the other side of the table, enthusiastically discussing something with Lady Ann. He wishes to talk to James, to draw him near and murmur something sweet that might make him laugh, he wishes to pull him into an empty room and see if he can’t make him sigh and moan and gasp – he is sure those noises would be as pretty as the rest of him.

By the time they reach dessert, Francis says little to his neighbours and picks absently at his meringue, watching James across the table, unable and perhaps unwilling to gauge how obvious his staring has become. James catches sight of him, every so often, and across the table laden with floral arrangements, sparkling crystal candelabras and piles of little sugared confections, he smiles in a slow, soft way that reminds Francis of honey on a spoon.

Eventually, finally, at last, dinner is over, and those assembled are able to retire back to the comfortable drawing room, where a fire is burning merrily in the grate. James has left his dinner companions and stands slightly apart from the party. Francis catches his eye again, and does not intend to let him get away this time. James quirks an eyebrow, and then turns to the wall, for all intents and purposes admiring the oil painting hanging there. He clasps his hands behind his back, and Francis watches the tangle of his fingers, before he must cross the room and stand at James’ side.

“I am dying of curiosity,” he says, and although James does not turn his head, Francis sees a smile spread across his face. “I must know you managed it, in the end.”

James chuckles, and finally turns slightly to face him, to scan the room with his eyes before returning his gaze to Francis. “I fear the story will not satisfy you. Will rode out to Miss Meyrick’s house early one morning, to ask for her hand, for her father’s blessing – it was all quite without my prompting. In fact, I had no idea that anything had happened until Will came back home again with the good news. I slept through the whole thing.”

Francis is silent as he takes all this in, imagining the look of shock on James’ face when he awoke to the good news. “I believe you may still congratulate yourself,” He says, leaning in with something of a conspiratorial tone. “He may have ridden to see her by himself, but you all but saddled up his horse.”

James blinks in surprise, and then he is laughing, and the sound of it fills Francis up with a warm contentment. “It does hearten me to hear you say that,” James eventually says, mirth still clear on his face, and he reaches out to lightly press Francis’ arm. “When you were once my fiercest critic.”

The touch feels like the touch of a brand, fierce and red hot, and yet delicate enough not to burn through the dark wool of Francis’ coat. “Things change,” he says. “We are friends now.”

James grins. “Yes, we are, aren’t we.”

Francis opens his mouth to reply, but realises he can’t quite find the words, suddenly taken by how close he and James are now standing, how dark his eyes are, how he is chewing absently at the inside of his cheek as they stare at each other. Francis suddenly becomes very aware of the rapid beating of his heart; he has no idea how long it has been carrying on like this, feels sure that it must be loud enough for James to hear, feels sure that James is the cause. He cannot tear his eyes away from James’ mouth, or the faint flush that has spread across his cheeks. Has Francis ever seen anyone so beautiful? Could there be anyone in the world to equal –

“Frank!” Ross’ voice brings him back to reality. He flinches as if he has been struck, and turns to look at his old friend, who is stood by the sofa where his wife, Mrs Meyrick, and Mrs Coningham are sitting. “Come over here, would you, I need your help explaining something.”

Francis blinks, taking a deep breath as he tries to formulate an answer. James has stepped away a little, staring at some nondescript point across the room. “Yes,” Francis says, “of course.”

Later, he will blame the shadowy nature of the corner in which they have found themselves, but in the moment, he hardly considers this at all, as he gently lays a hand on James’ waist as he moves around him to cross the room. He thinks he hears a small noise, a happy hum of surprise, and he glances back to see James reaching out to the back of a nearby chair and grasping it lightly, as if for balance, his long fingers curling around the elegantly carved wood.

As Francis stands with Ross, listing and describing to the ladies the various flora and fauna to be found in Antarctica, he feels the warm weight of James’ eyes upon him, as a lighthouse’s beam on a dark sea.

\---

Rose Hill has been a strange whirlpool of activity since Will’s engagement. James has hardly rested, with so much celebrating and congratulating to be done, so much to plan and prepare. A few days after it had happened, the reality sank in all at once that Will is to be  _ married,  _ and he is to bring someone new into their little family, and perhaps a few new someones in the coming years. Rose Hill is on the precipice of something, a bright new chapter in the family history, and it is strange and wonderful at the same time.

In the midst of all this activity, James has finally found a quiet afternoon to himself. He has been out of sorts today. He has tried to read and given up, has tried to draw and broken the lead of one of his best pencils. He considered a good long walk, except he has ripped his favourite walking trousers, and he feels that they are the only pair that would do. And so he has remained inside, lying here on the sofa for the best part of the afternoon, staring at the ceiling and thinking almost exclusively about Francis Crozier.

A betrothal in the family is bound to set romantic thoughts off in one’s head. They are certainly there in James’ head, and would likely be there even without Will and Elizabeth’s influence. He thinks about Francis constantly, thinks about what he might be doing at any given point during the day, what he might be eating, reading, doing, talking about. What might he be thinking about – and might it be James?

James wonders what he likes to do on quiet evenings. He wonders what Francis likes to do at night.

James is quite alone in this part of the house. There are no distractions, only the faint sound of birdsong drifting in from the open door to the garden. It is no work at all to close his eyes, and let his imagination unravel.

He imagines one evening, and perhaps it is dark and stormy outside, where they might be alone and sitting here, on this very sofa. Francis might ask James to read to him, and James would do it, but he would lie back against the pillows and allow his legs to rest across Francis’ lap as he read. He imagines this might embolden Francis, who would let his strong, weathered hands stroke soft patterns over James’ ankles, his calves, his knees, and he might grow bolder still and let his hands travel up to James’ thighs.

And, James thinks, wishes, Francis might suddenly grab him, haul him upwards and into his lap, so that James can feel once and for all the irrefutable proof of how Francis wants him. Something undeniable, something from which there is no going back, something that could no longer remain unspoken.

They have been dancing around it for so long, James feels, why should they not speak it now?  _ I want you, Francis,  _ he might say.  _ I want you so much I cannot bear it. You will drive me mad one day, if you continue to look at me like you do without taking me at once to your bed.  _

And then Francis might do it, might take him by the hand, and James would simply never let go, and it would be as easy as that.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes three, rousing James from his reveries. It does not do to indulge in such daydreams in the middle of the afternoon, and especially not while he is sitting in the drawing room. He has taken off his shoe to let it dangle from the toes of his stockinged foot, but it suddenly falls to the floor with a clatter, making him jump. With a sigh he sits up and rakes his hair back from his face, feeling slightly dizzy at this change in position. He considers getting up from the sofa and doing something productive, or perhaps lying back down again and trying to nap.

In the end, the choice is made for him, because the door opens with a soft click, and Louisa Coningham comes into the room.

“James dear,” she says in that soft, gentle tone that James remembers from his earliest memories. “Come and take a turn with me about the garden.”

It is a strange request, to be sure, and James’ first instinct is to ask her what she wants, but the determined look on her face keeps him silent and pushes him up off the settee, and once he has shoved his foot back into his shoe, they walk out of the house into the sunshine, her arm through his. They walk in peaceful, contemplative silence for a while, James stretching out the muscles in his neck as they go, waiting for his mother to say what she evidently wants to say.

They stroll for some time, unhurried and at ease, and eventually Louisa signals that they might settle on a wrought iron bench under a great tree, which looks out over where the garden slopes down and meets the stone wall of the adjoining field, and the woods that border it. Louisa clears her throat, smooths down the front of her dress, James watches with rapt attention. “Now that your brother is engaged, your father and I have been discussing the future. Your future, more specifically.” She looks at him, calmly and evenly, while James’ mind whirls, furiously trying to predict what she might say next. “Your father means to leave the house to you.”

James’ mouth falls open. He feels like his heart has stopped, and it only restarts once he inhales a ragged breath, a desperate hammering sounding within his chest, in his ears. “But – but William is your – what about him?”

Louisa serenely shakes her head. “He doesn’t want it. He dreams of London, or further. You know he’d rather be in an art gallery or a museum than in the middle of a field. And these political aspirations he’s been mentioning...” She smiles and shakes her head again. “You’ll inherit the house, James, and run the estate, and eventually you must marry and produce an heir, so that you can pass it all on to him.” His mother must see something like panic in his eyes, or perhaps it just comes from the simple fact that she is his mother, because her smile softens, and she puts a hand on his knee. “But no need to think about that for a while, eh? If it doesn’t happen, and William has a son, one day...perhaps you can teach your nephew everything there is to know.”

James starts as if he has just remembered where he is. His mouth is still hanging open – he knows he must look the simplest fool but he cannot help it. “B-but I don’t know anything. The place will fall apart around me.” 

Yes, that would be rich; the adopted son reducing the family legacy to rubble and ashes, letting everyone down, completely and utterly. The good name and good fortune of the Coninghams ruined by the foreign bastard they were foolish enough to take in. He feels like everything around him is spinning, and has the urge to lean down and put his head between his knees.

He tells himself to focus on his mother’s face, however, because she has a look in her eyes that he remembers from his childhood, the same comforting and placating look she would have when he would come running in with a grazed knee, muddy clothes, and tears streaked across his face. “Of course it won’t, my darling. You’re a clever boy.” He suddenly feels like he is a boy again, and not at all like he is not too far off from thirty. “And you’ll have help.”

“Will I?”

The sudden bark of a dog startles them both, and James looks over to see a very muddy pointer wagging its tail at them, and James Clark Ross coming up the garden with Francis Crozier in tow. Ross waves heartily at them both, while Francis looks on with a vague, polite expression.

“A good day to you both!” Ross calls as he tramps closer, his boots and the hem of his coat covered with at least two inches of mud. Francis seems to have avoided much of it, and James wonders how this can be so, if they have walked here together. It almost makes him smile. “What fine weather we are – get away at once, Hector!” Ross says sharply to the dog, who has approached the bench and clearly has designs on putting its filthy paws on the front of Louisa’s fine white gown, and James’ new breeches. At its master’s command, it obediently trots away, where it can be no danger to anyone’s clothes, to sniff along the hedgerow, perhaps hoping to catch onto the scent of a squirrel or a rabbit. “Do forgive us,” Ross says. “We set out on a wander and ended up here, quite without meaning to.”

“Nonsense,” Louisa says, squeezing James’ knee as she gets to her feet. “You are always welcome here – both of you. How is your lady wife? And the baby?”

While Ross launches into his latest tale regarding his infant son –  _ sitting up, quite on his own, he’ll be riding a horse in no time –  _ James looks from Ross’ cheerful face, cheeks red with exertion, over to Francis, who has been watching him all this while. James allows a small smile in greeting, and when Francis returns it he feels something run through him, hot and liquid like melted chocolate. It sits in his chest, warms him through. 

James stands, tugging at the bottom of his jacket to neaten it. He hopes he will pass muster, and becomes acutely aware of how his hair falls against his cheeks. He hopes it is pleasing, hopes Francis thinks him pleasing. “I hope you are well, sir,” he says softly, while his mother talks to Ross.

“Quite well,” Francis replies, his smile widening, and James gets a glimpse of the gap between his front teeth, which is more charming than James can put into words. “We decided to have a walk today to find the most beautiful sights in the county.”

“Oh, really?” James asks, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. It brings Francis out beautifully – the blue of his eyes, the shine of his fair hair. His freckles, his nose reddened with sunburn. He is the sort of man who should always be seen in sunshine, James thinks. This is the very best of him. “I do hope you have found them.”

Francis’ smile softens. James itches to reach out and touch him. “I should say so,” Francis says gently, and James feels that he is about to give in to giddiness and giggle like a schoolboy, when his mother invites their guests in for tea, or perhaps a glass of elderflower cordial, it being such a hot day. Ross escorts Louisa inside, while James follows behind with Francis, who walks with his hands tucked behind his back, a thoughtful look on his face as he surveys the garden and the tall beech trees.

This will be James’ garden one day, James’ trees. He swallows heavily, lets out a sigh. “Today I have had my future laid out for me.”

Francis breaks out of whatever he was thinking about and raises an eyebrow, looks at him curiously. “How so?”

“I am to inherit,” James says with a vague, all encompassing wave of his hand. “This will all be mine to manage, one day.”

Francis blinks. Questions about Will and rightful heirs and the status of adopted sons are clearly running through his head, James can see them as if they are written behind his eyes, but they do not come. Instead, Francis clears his throat. “I envy you,” he says, as soft and as gentle as if it is a terrible confession. “I had always hoped I might be able to look after my father’s lands, but very little is left for an eleventh child to inherit, you know.”

“You would be a master of land  _ and  _ sea, then,” James says, which makes Francis laugh. It is an inordinately pleasing sound. 

“Hardly that,” Francis replies, reaching a hand out to skim along a row of lavender bushes as they walk past them. James wonders if his hand has taken on the smell, he wonders if that hand were to cup his cheek, might he be able to make out the scent of lavender? “The idea of managing land has always interested me. It’s a science, really.” There is silence for a while as they approach the house. James can hear the clink of china and cutlery in the kitchen, movement and soft conversation. “Do you not want it?” Francis asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” James admits. “I haven’t the first clue what I’m doing.”

Francis nods, staring down at the floor. “You’ll have help.” It is half statement, half question. James wonders what he is asking.

“That’s what Mama said,” he replies, before his mother appears at the open doorway, thrusting at him a plate of cakes for him to offer to their guests, and he must turn his attention to entertaining.

“Ross is taking Lady Ann and the baby to see family, next week,” Francis murmurs later, once cakes have been eaten and he and Ross are getting ready to leave. “Come and see me.” 

“So we can argue again?” James asks, not bothering to hide his smile, not bothering to ignore the pleasant tensing of his stomach. 

Francis laughs, loud enough that James’ mother looks over at them both; they are silent until her attention turns again away from them. “If you like,” Francis says with a glance around, lifting a hand and quickly, deftly, pressing his fingers to James’ wrist, over the frilly cuff of his sleeve. James suddenly longs to grab at him, to grab at Francis’ forearms and pull their bodies together, to get his hands under Francis’ waistcoat and skim over the planes of what he is sure is a very lovely, broad chest. That can wait, he supposes, it must wait, and so he nods, and smiles, and that night he dreams that Francis is in his bed, and that, for the first time, he falls asleep in the arms of another.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

James approaches Aston Abbots with the sort of trepidation he has not felt since he was a young boy. Going off to boarding school was not as intimidating as this. It is a warm, settled sort of evening, the air still and fragrant and the sun still shining brightly across the fields. James’ shadow stretches out before him as he crosses a hayfield, following the path of tramped-down grass made by others who have come before him. He clambers over the stile into the next pasture, and he can see Aston Abbots below him, nestled in the cradle of two hills.

He hesitates then, suddenly feeling a rush of nerves, and imagines just turning around and going home, pretending he has taken ill or simply forgotten about the whole thing. But James Fitzjames is no coward. He will meet his nerves head-on, and he will vanquish them. He takes a deep breath and sets off down the field.

Once James has reached the house, it is to his surprise that Francis answers the door. He had been expecting a footman, perhaps a maid, but there seem to be no servants in sight. Perhaps Francis has sent them all away for the evening.

“Good evening, Francis,” James says brightly, not allowing the knot of tension in his stomach to show in his voice. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Francis shakes his head earnestly. “Not at all, not at all. Please, come in.”

James does so, removing his hat and stepping into the house’s entrance hall. This is nothing new to him of course, and he feels a sudden rush of fondness for its familiarity. Francis closes the door behind them both, fidgets with his hands.

“Do you want anything to eat?” He asks.

James shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

“Anything to drink? Some wine?”

“No, I’m alright, thank you.”

The muscles in Francis’ jaw twitch slightly. “There’s nothing I can get you?”

“Honestly, Francis–”

“Yes, alright, I’m sorry.”

James tilts his head and smiles at him. He very much enjoys seeing Francis like this – flushed and nervous, eager to please. Francis stares at the floor for a moment, and then lifts a hand to rub absently at the back of his neck.

“Well, I – I could show you around, if you like. You’ve seen downstairs, of course, but upstairs–”

He cannot seem to finish the sentence, but James understands. “Please. I would like it most of all things.”

The house is blessedly peaceful, bathed in the gilded light of a warm evening. They reach the bottom of the staircase and James looks up, at the paintings on the wall, at the beams of golden sunshine streaming through the tall window. He puts his hand on the bannister, the wood warm from the sun, and inhales the smell of furniture polish and dust and, faintly, of flowers.

Francis leads him up the stairs, and gestures to their right when they reach the landing. “Ross and Lady Ann have rooms down there. The nursery as well.”

James nods, looking along a darkened corridor of closed doors. It is indeed a corridor, a perfectly adequate corridor, though it is not what he came to see.

Francis heads left. James follows, and tries not to get too close, and so when Francis stops suddenly by a door, they do not collide. “And this is – this is my room,” Francis says, his hand fumbling on the handle for just a moment before he swings the door open.

James has to squint a little; compared to the darkness of the windowless corridor, the room is overwhelmingly bright. The west-facing windows are ablaze with the sunset, lighting up the beautiful wallpaper and the cherry wood furniture and the four poster bed with its sumptuously embroidered quilt. There are books everywhere: on the bureau and on the bedside tables, one propped open on an armchair by the window. James wonders if Francis reads there by the light of the morning, a cup of tea perched on his knee.

“It’s lovely,” James breathes, wanting more than anything to cross the threshold, though he will not do it until Francis invites it.

“There’s a fine view of the lake,” Francis says, his hands tucked behind his back. “From the far window.”

James understands, ducks his head with a smile as he steps into the sacred sanctuary of Francis’ bedroom. He crosses the room in a few long strides, for he has been directed to look out of the window, and that is what he will do. Francis has the air of a skittish horse; James must make no sudden movements, for the comfort of them both. There is no rush. They have all night.

Francis is right – there is a good view of the lake from here, and the small island in the middle of it, crowded with a clutch of trees. James can see the little jetty, and the rowboat tethered to it.

“Do you go fishing there?” He asks, aware that Francis has followed him across the room, standing just behind his right shoulder.

“Occasionally. It’s quite well stocked.” The floorboards creak as Francis shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you fish?”

James shakes his head, wishing he had a better answer. “Perhaps you can teach me.”

Francis laughs, and James finally turns to face him, notices that the door is now closed, and they are quite alone. “I have rather a silly request,” James says, looking past Francis to the wardrobe behind him. Francis’ brows furrow in confusion, and he nods minutely. “Your dress uniform. From the Navy. Might I see it?”

For a moment he worries that he has asked this question in French, or perhaps Ancient Greek, for the confused way that Francis looks at him, but then there is a nod, and Francis approaches not the wardrobe, but the chest at the foot of his bed. “It’ll be awfully creased,” he says. “It’s been in this box for months.”

James tries not to stare as he bends over the chest and roots around inside, but at last Francis draws out a fine jacket of dark blue and trimmed with gold, shining as bright as any king’s finery.

“Here,” Francis says, laying it out on the bed. James steps closer, reaching out to run his fingertips over the heavy wool, catching on a row of buttons.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, and Francis makes a proud noise.

“And bloody expensive,” he says. “You’ve no idea how much the epaulettes alone cost.”

James glides his hand up the jacket to run his fingers through the gilt fringe of an epaulette. He had expected splendour, but he had not expected it to be this exquisite. To know that it belongs to Francis makes it even more beautiful – it becomes something precious and important. “Might I try it on?” He asks before he can stop himself, and instantly regrets it. Francis is a sailor, and he is a boy with a dressing up box.

Francis doesn’t question it however, in fact he laughs good-naturedly, and says, “yes, if you like. It may not fit very well, mind.”

James ventures a look at him, ventures a small smile. He begins to unbutton his own coat, aware of Francis’ eyes on his fingers as they move over the buttons. He shrugs it off and rolls his shoulders now that they are free from their tight confines, and picks up Francis’ jacket. He glances at Francis again and is met with an encouraging nod.

As predicted, it doesn’t fit very well. The sleeves are much too short, the body of it is too large and sits awkwardly. James fumbles with the buttons and Francis steps forwards to attend to it himself. “We have stewards for this,” he explains. “To get us looking respectable.”

“And do I look respectable?” James asks.

Francis takes a step back and looks him up and down. A lopsided smile appears on his face. “I daresay. See for yourself,” he gestures at the mirror, and James moves to stand in front of it.

The sight of himself surprises a laugh out of his mouth. Despite the ill fit of the jacket he looks very well indeed. A professional man, knowledgeable and capable and competent. He barely looks like himself. 

“Well!” He exclaims, twisting a little to see how it looks in profile, the epaulettes catching the light and glittering as he turns. “Not bad at all.” He admires his reflection until he notices how Francis is regarding him, and he is suddenly flush with embarrassment. His brother had called him a peacock once, and it is evidently still true. He is all beauty, with nothing underneath all that varnish. He sighs a little as he looks at himself, looks at how Francis is watching him. “I wanted to go to sea when I was young. Now I wish I had.”

Francis nods as if James has just made a particularly astute philosophical musing. “In another life,” he says eventually, sounding strangely wistful, “we could have sailed together.”

Oh, James can picture it, on the deck of some great ship streaming across the Atlantic, or perhaps the Mediterranean, gusts of wind filling their sails and pulling them over the water, he in his fine uniform and Francis at his side, a steady and comforting presence. With Francis at the helm, they could go anywhere. “I could have been the lieutenant to your tyrannical captain.”

“Tyrannical!” Francis laughs. “That’s not very generous. Besides, you could have been a captain in your own right, given time.”

This is high praise indeed, and James feels himself flush as much as he tries not to. “A glowing commendation,” he pronounces, suddenly filled with the need to have Francis much nearer. “Might you undo these buttons again?”

They are likely closer than they need to be as Francis attends to this duty, but James cannot dream of complaining. It must be a strange sensation for Francis to be undoing familiar buttons in reverse, but his fingers are steady and deft, and the jacket falls open again. There are a few moments of stillness as they both stand in silence, before James inhales a little shakily and asks, “and might you undo these buttons, as well?” He runs a fingertip over the top button of his waistcoat.

Francis obeys with question or hesitation. When James’ waistcoat is open, Francis presses the palms of his hands to James’ stomach, his fingertips kneading slightly at the soft fabric of his shirt. James sighs and closes his eyes as Francis’ hands move to hold his waist. The heat of his touch through his shirt is exquisite.

“James,” Francis murmurs, somehow quieter and closer than James could have expected. “Kiss me.”

James does.

The first time they kissed, it had been a strange and heady mix of desire and anger, want and fury, but now it is nothing but gentle. It is soft, and unhurried, and James lifts his hands to cradle the back of Francis’ head, and Francis slides his arms around James’ waist to pull them flush together.

It is a wonderful feeling to have Francis’ body against his own, solid and warm and well built, and James finds himself humming a pleased noise, which Francis takes as a cue to open his mouth, press their tongues together, tighten the hold of his arms.

James is loathe to pull back again but eventually he must, gasping in a lungful of air, running his fingers through Francis’ hair, mussing it out of its usually neat state. It looks very well, paired with his flushed face and his shining eyes. Francis doesn’t speak, so James shrugs out of Francis’ jacket and his own waistcoat, sets them down on the nearby armchair and sets about unbuttoning Francis’ clothes. He gets Francis’ green wool jacket and his waistcoat off, and then hooks a finger into his cravat to untie the knot. He unravels it from Francis’ neck, admiring how the collar of his shirt falls open. He moves his hands to the buttons of Francis’ shirt but Francis catches his hands, stilling their movements.

Francis kisses him again, running his hands into James’ hair and sighs as if this is something he has wanted to do for a long time.

“Sit down,” he eventually says, nodding at the bed, and James hastens to comply. He settles himself on the edge of the bed, pulling off his own cravat and throwing it to the side. Francis follows him, and James feels a strange mix of horror and excitement as Francis lowers himself to his knees, but he only takes hold of one of James’ bony ankles to ease his shoe off his foot. The other is also removed, and his hands slide up James’ legs to undo the buckles of his breeches, just below his knees. His fingers caress James’ calves, the soft, sensitive hollows behind his knees. “Your clothes are very fine,” he comments as James watches him, his breathing quickened now, his face red. His hands clutch anxiously at the sheets. Francis presses a kiss to one knee. “You must be the best dressed man in the county. I do not hear you mentioned without someone commenting on a fine waistcoat, or a well knotted cravat.”

James laughs, trying to come up with some witty comment, but he finds himself beyond that. “You are very kind, sir,” he says instead, shrugging off his braces, noticing how dark Francis’ eyes have become in the fading daylight.

Francis gazes pointedly at the buttons of James’ breeches, but he hesitates. James undoes them instead, lifting his hips to push them down his legs and away. Francis gets to his feet again, the scrutiny of his gaze almost unbearable. James hopes it is an attractive image – the sight of himself just in his shirt and stockings, the crumpled tails of his shirt covering his arousal, the top few buttons undone to reveal a triangle of his flushed chest. “Well?” He eventually asks, marking Francis’ silence and trying to decipher whether it is approval or disappointment.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” Francis says, his voice suddenly rough.

In lieu of a response, James holds out his arms, lets Francis climb on top of him and push him down into the softness of the bed. Francis kisses him with abandon and James is happy to allow it, their mouths open and wet and wanting as he winds his arms around Francis’ shoulders, one hand sliding down his back to haul him closer, as close as he can be. Francis makes a noise at this, at their erections pressing together, and he shifts his mouth to press wet, open mouthed kisses to James’ neck, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. It falls open, revealing his chest – revealing everything – and Francis makes a sound close to a growl as he shifts downwards to kiss and lave with his tongue at James’ collarbone, his chest, a brown nipple.

James sighs, arching up into the heat of his mouth, tangling his fingers in Francis’ fine hair.

“You’re beautiful,” Francis murmurs against his skin, his breath hot and damp. “You’re so beautiful.” His mouth keeps moving, keeps moving lower, and James scarcely has time to think before Francis’ hands are on his hips, and his mouth is on his cock.

James lets out a shocked groan, throwing his head back against the sheets. “God, Francis–” he chokes. “Have you done this before?”

Francis lifts his head and James looks down at him, seeing how his lips are already red and swollen, how his cheeks are flushed, his eyes shining. “Yes,” he says, with a pleasing lack of bashfulness. “Have you?”

James just nods, not trusting the strength of his voice after this revelation, and for a moment they smile at each other, until a slight roll of James’ hips brings Francis back to his task. He holds James’ gaze as he lowers his head again. The wet, soft heat of his lips and his tongue are nearly more than James can take, suddenly feeling that he is under the full force of the summer sun, unable to escape its intensity. “ _ God _ ,” he gasps again, and feels Francis hum in response. He clutches at his hair, perhaps pulling more than he means to, but Francis does not complain, and nor does he slow his motions. 

One of his hands move down from James’ hip to his thigh, stroking the fine dark hairs there, applying gentle pressure to encourage them to part further. His hand makes its way down to his knee, where he absently toys with the top of James’ stocking, before it slowly starts to glide upwards again, up along the sensitive skin of James’ inner thigh, higher and higher and James keens, shaking a little with the force of his desire.

Francis evidently misinterprets this, because his mouth and hand both still. “Is this alright?” He asks, breathless.

“Oh,” James breathes, “ _ yes –  _ but don’t – I want it to last.” He pulls at Francis’ hair, pulling him away from his cock, which falls wetly against his stomach. “Let me touch you too.”

Francis grins in a way that James has rarely seen, and shuffles inelegantly up the bed so that they are lying side by side. James props himself up on his elbow, that he might look down at Francis’ face as he reaches to unbutton his breeches and get his hand inside. He strokes him lazily, pushing Francis’ collar aside to lay kisses to his jaw, the soft places behind his ear. “I had wondered how this might feel,” he murmurs, squeezing his fingers slightly and revelling in the way it makes Francis shiver. James kisses him again, noting the faint taste of himself on Francis’ damp lips.

Francis lifts his hands to pet at James hair, pulling his shirt down his shoulders. James withdraws his hand from Francis’ breeches in order to remove it completely, and sets about unbuttoning Francis’ own shirt, when hands around his wrists stop his movements. “You won’t want to–” Francis begins, suddenly looking chagrined, and James wants to do whatever he can to get that expression off his face at once.

“I do,” James insists. “I do want to. I want to see you, please.”

Francis hesitates, and then nods, and suffers to have his shirt removed. James has to bite his lip at the sight of him;of his broad, solid, flushed chest, the pleasing soft curve of his belly, the clear strength in his arms and the surprising and lovely revelation of the freckles on his shoulders.

James’ eyes rove greedily over him, and he lets his hands rove greedily too. “God, Francis, you’re wonderful.”

Francis huffs a laugh, lifting a hand to idly twirl a lock of James’ hair around his fingers. “You’re in my bed in naught but your stockings. I should be the one saying that.”

“Well,” James says, sliding his hands down to the waistband of Francis’ breeches. “Let me get these off, and we can be on equal footing.”

“Go on then,” Francis says with a raised brow, lifting his hips to help as his breeches are slid down his legs and off, his stockings going with them. James cannot help the slightly hungry feeling that comes over him as he looks over Francis’ now naked body, and when he glances up at Francis’ face, he sees him watching him with a wary expression.

“You’re  _ wonderful _ ,” James says again, returning his hand to Francis’ prick and his lips to Francis’ neck. He kisses up to the shell of his ear, and he catches his earlobe gently with his teeth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, “and I want you to have me.” 

“Christ have mercy,” Francis moans, which makes James laugh.

From there, it progresses quickly; when the movement of James’ hand makes Francis’ breathing rapid and unsteady, it is batted away and James watches as Francis leans over the side of the bed to root around in the drawer of his bedside table, eventually producing a small bottle of oil.

At Francis’ urging, James relaxes against the pillows as Francis settles between his thighs, and with thick, oiled fingers he seeks to open James up and find that spot within him that makes his mouth fall open in delight. From there, it is no trouble at all for Francis to replace his fingers with his cock, moaning long and low as he presses into James’ pliant, eager body.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Francis groans once he is fully seated, pressing his forehead to James’ shoulder.

James scrabbles at his back, digging his nails in slightly as he gets accustomed to the stretch, to the lovely ache of it, to the feeling of being so full of this wonderful man. He manages to get a leg around Francis’ middle, urging him closer, urging him into motion with the heel of his foot. Obligingly, Francis starts to move, his thrusts slow at first, getting quicker and surer as they fall into a rhythm, James canting his hips to meet him, the two of them moving together in a tangle of limbs.

“Is it good,” Francis gasps against James’ neck. “James – does it feel good?”

James laughs breathlessly, as if it could be anything  _ but _ good. “Yes, yes it does, oh Christ–” He wraps a hand around himself, to stroke his cock in time with the movement of Francis’ hips, and this is met with a low groan from Francis.

“You’re a vision, James,” he pants, pressing a kiss to James’ collarbone. “You’re a dream.”

“Have you – dreamt about this?” James asks, tightening his leg around Francis’ middle, pulling him closer. He imagines Francis alone at night, in this very bed, hard and needing something James is only too willing to give him.

“Nightly. Bloody hell, nightly.” One of Francis’ hands snakes up to take hold of a handful of James’ hair – not to pull or cause pain, only to have somewhere to anchor himself. James delights in it. “You never leave my head, I’ve not known peace for months.”

James laughs, pulls him into a kiss, holds onto him as tightly as he can. He hopes his grip leaves bruises, that Francis might later know that this has not been a dream. It will be irrefutable proof of the way James’ body has taken him in, brought him bliss.

There is a tightening in James’ stomach now, waves of heat rolling over him, and he is powerless to do anything but let it wash over him - oh, he would drown in this sensation if he could. The movement of his hand is frantic, knocking against Francis’ stomach as he huffs and groans and clings to his handful of Francis’ hair. Francis watches him with a slack expression, his eyes roving over the sharp contours of James’ face, his mouth open and panting, his cheeks deliciously pink. “Come on,” he gasps, his thrusting ragged and sharp now. “Come on, James, yes, let me see it–”

“Oh fuck, yes,  _ Francis _ –” James seizes up suddenly, lifts his head to press his face into Francis’ neck and spends with a moan, spilling over his hand and his stomach. He feels the cinching of his body around Francis’ cock as his orgasm racks through him, and judging by the way Francis screws his eyes shut and groans, he certainly feels it too. His movements become suddenly frenzied, and for James’ oversensitive body it is on the verge of being too much when Francis moans, his hips stutter, and he is spent. 

Francis collapses onto James’ chest, forcing a huff of breath out of him. James holds him tightly, fiercely; he will not let go if he can help it. He strokes Francis’ soft, golden hair, makes soothing noises as Francis shakes and tries to catch his breath, and eventually lifts his head. His hand comes up to stroke James’ cheek, and a kiss is pressed to James’ mouth that is so soft and so sweet that he thinks he could cry.

“Let me get you a cloth,” Francis says, pulling back, pulling out, leaving James with an almost unbearable sense of emptiness. He has to bite his lip to stop some pathetic whine from making its way out of his mouth.

“Stay,” James protests, reaching out to Francis as he climbs off the bed with noticeably wobbly legs.

Francis shakes his head, crosses to the washbasin, dipping a cloth in the water and ringing it out again, wiping off his hands and his prick. “This first. You’ll be more comfortable.”

James supposes this is true, and notices for the first time how dark it has gotten, how the sun has slipped below the treeline and the sky has turned an inky blue. They should light some candles before it gets any darker, but for now there is just enough light to see by, just enough light to admire the shape of Francis’ body as he comes back to the bed. 

He sets about the task of cleaning the mess off James’ skin, wiping it from his stomach and from between his thighs. Finally Francis is done, and deigns to climb back onto the bed. James wraps his arms around him immediately, pushing him onto his back so that he might settle by Francis’ side with his head on his shoulder. He feels Francis’ hand running lazily up and down his back, and closes his eyes to enjoy the pleasant ache and the tiredness that only comes after some good, honest exertion.

“James,” Francis says softly, after an indeterminable amount of time lying together like this. “You must know that I–” He sighs, and clears his throat, and James shifts back a little so that he can peer up into Francis’ face. “Perhaps if we were still being unfriendly to one another, I might grasp more freely at the words.”

“Which words?” James asks, resting his hand over the steady beating of Francis’ heart.

Francis stares up at the canopy of the bed, the muscles in his jaw tensing and relaxing as he thinks. “You must know that I – I have thought about you. I have wanted you from the beginning, at times quite against my better judgement, but it never went away. I thought I might go mad,” Francis says, shifting his head to murmur in James’ ear in a way that makes him shiver, “with want of you.”

James fights the urge to smile, fights the urge to throw his head back and laugh with joy. “Even when I was acting the most foolish and arrogant brat in Hertfordshire?”

There is an amused noise, a huff of breath against James’ neck. “Twas against my better judgement, as I said. But that did not stop me.”

“I am not often given to regrets,” James says, lifting his hand to stroke through Francis’ hair. “Though I do regret how I have treated you. It was not well done.”

“You will forgive me if I do not argue it,” Francis says. “But I know you are sorry for it. I cannot imagine I made a very good first impression, either.”

James smiles slyly. “Will you make me atone for my wickedness?” He purrs, stroking through the hair on Francis’ chest.

Francis laughs, swatting at his arm. “Oh, be kind to an old man. There is only so much I can take in one evening.”

A contented noise makes its way out of James’ chest and he cups Francis’ cheek, turns his face and kisses him with as much passion and tenderness as he can muster, as much as ever existed in this house, in this town, in this country. Surely no one can be as happy as the two of them now, it cannot be possible. Love has never manifested itself in such a way, James knows this to be a fact. It cannot exist in the world like it exists here, in this bed.

“We will look after each other, won’t we,” he asks some time later, when the sun has truly set and they are under the sheets, talking by the light of a single candle.

“I should think so,” is Francis’ steady reply, steady like the hand stroking the slight dip of James’ waist, steady like his breathing, slow and comforting. “We will help each other.”

“When I have Rose Hill?”

“When you have Rose Hill,” Francis confirms. “But before then. Straight away, all the time.”

James nods. He understands. It will not be easy, this life together. The logistics are beyond him currently, the specific details of their sort of love; but he knows that Francis has him, and he has Francis, and the undeniable certainty is that they  _ will _ look after each other, for as long as they might. 

The morning dawns bright and auspicious and James awakes early, watching the slight fluttering of Francis’ fair eyelashes, and the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. What a strange road they have taken to get here, James thinks, and what a strange road lies before them. What happiness he has found, what happiness he might even deserve.

Francis shifts minutely in his sleep, and James reaches out to lay a hand over the regular, insistent beating of his heart. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel it, feels that it might fall into line with his own, feels that it might be the metronome by which he can live his life.

Francis will wake eventually, and when he does, James will gather him into his arms, hold him tightly and proclaim that he has no intention of ever letting go. Francis will laugh, James hopes – Francis will laugh and kiss him and hold him just as tightly. And eventually, when they manage to extricate themselves from Francis’ sheets, when they manage to wash and shave and dress and eat, they may go out into the world, and face the day together.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. I did warn my twitter followers that this was coming, and 25k words later, here we are – just some trope-y Regency fun where our boys can be yearning idiots, and I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I would like to thank the latest film adaptation of Emma, as well as Johnny Flynn's bum, for being endlessly inspiring. 
> 
> An infinite amount of thanks to kt_fairy for her encouragement and lovely comments and for checking this over once it was done and whipping it into shape. Thank you so so much!!!
> 
> Also massive thanks to reinetta and the_lenka for all their encouragement and general loveliness <3
> 
> Find me on tumblr (@ norvegiae) and twitter (@norvegiae_)


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